


Destinies Entwined

by Jaelijn



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 11, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Alternate Universe - The French Mistake, Angst, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, RPF, Suicidal Thoughts, major character death but not really, no one actually dies in the fic i promise, please refer to the notes for clarification, this makes it sound more grim than it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 70,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5096309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaelijn/pseuds/Jaelijn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
<img/>
</p>
<p>When they get rid of the Mark, Dean doesn’t for a moment believe that they’ll get away fine - but when Darkness falls not only over him and Cas, but ripples across the multiverse, they are in way over their heads.</p>
<p>While the two of them are falling apart, several of their alter egos find themselves violently separated from each other as well. The universe seems out to convince Misha that Jensen died in the summer even though he could have sworn they had just gone to sleep together the night before. Cas wonders how much he took to erase Dean’s death by Croats, of all things, from his memory, and why, by a cruel twist of fate, Camp Chitaqua had picked him as their leader.</p>
<p>Separated and yet united by the same destiny, all of them scramble to find a way to fight the Darkness and to get back to each other…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Here it finally is, my DCBB for 2015! Hope you enjoy the read!**  
>  It is a bit of a speculative AU for S11, written mostly during the hiatus, though that makes it sound too simple - let's just say, there will be no spoilers for the actual S11 which has now started as I post this, but major spoilers up to and including 10x23. 
> 
> I had tons of fun with the fic, and I hope you'll have just as much fun reading it! (Don't worry, the chapters will get longer! :P)
> 
> I decided to still warn for MCD, even though it is a little more complicated than that. I promise, however, that this fic has a happy ending, and, I swear, no one actually dies withing this fic. If you want to know more details before you decide to read it, please refer to my end notes, but beware - they will be slightly spoiler-y. 
> 
> I should also mention one of my major sources of inspiration as I was writing this, which was Melanie Rawn's _Glass Thorns_ series. The fic isn't a direct AU - but if you happen to know the books (they are fabulous!) you will see where the inspiration came from.  
>  Finally, many thanks to my wonderful artist, Cat (aka [glossostiel](http://glossostiel.tumblr.com/)), for not only picking my, uh... slightly ambitious fic, but for sticking with me through it all and helping to make it hopefully even more fun to read! (Shower her with love when you're done here, alright?)  
> And thanks also to my beta [Shona](http://the-bitch-to-your-jerk.tumblr.com/), who came late to the project, but whose comments were an invaluable help. (Sorry about the comma collection! :P)

_~ The Impala ~_

Everything went terribly, horribly wrong.

Yes, the Mark was gone, but that was about the only upside Dean could see. He was sure this thing was going to kick their asses, and had he really just friggin’ killed Death? Was that even possible?

This was not going to turn out well. Instead of relief, Dean could feel trepidation tingling at the base of his spine, uncomfortable and burning, and not even the sunrise and the fact that his brother was by his side and alive could chase it away.

And then Darkness fell.

_~ Vancouver ~_

Misha knew he should have gone home. Should have taken the day off. But it was too late for that, now.

“Misha? We’re good?”

Misha waved at the director and forced himself upright. The makeup was itchy today. Perhaps it was the fake blood, but Castiel had bled plenty of times before, and Misha had never had a reaction. Maybe he was just tired. He swayed a little, getting to his feet, but the cuffs would be holding him up, and the crew would put any unsteadiness down as acting. Misha emerged himself in the character, and let the scene carry him off. The call of _Action!_ seemed to come from far away.

****

When he came back to himself, he was lying on the couch in his trailer, a medic leaning over him. “Ah, Mr Krushnic. Welcome back. How are we feeling now?”

Misha ran a hand over his face and traced a finger along the scar at his throat self-consciously, deciding to ignore the misnomer for now. “Uh, better, I guess. What happened?”

“Just a fainting spell, nothing to worry about in this context, what with your history. Grab a bite to eat, and take it easy for now, alright? I will arrange for this scene to be postponed.” And with that, the studio’s emergency medic left him alone. Misha knew the guy, of course, knew all the staff, now, after the Incident, and the medical department better than some.

Misha let his head fall back against the sofa cushions. He hated being like this. Hated that his body betrayed him even when he convinced himself it was fine. It was just a scene, after all, on a set, with the cameras all around him; it wasn’t even a lonely, dark, stinking alley, and – he dragged in a hissing breath. Not going there. Something to eat. Rest. Yes. If only he could summon up the energy to move.

There was a polite knock on his trailer door, then it opened a crack and Jensen peered in. “Mish? Hey, how’re you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Looking good,” Jensen quipped, stepping inside.

Misha scrubbed at the makeup, rolling his eyes. “Thanks.” He pushed himself upright, making space for Jensen on the sofa beside him.

Jensen poured a glass of water at the sink, then came over and passed it to Misha. “Is this about the… Incident, because if it is, I’ll get them to rewrite the scene.”

“It’s… I don’t know. Didn’t have lunch. Must be low blood sugar or something. The scene can stay, it’s important.”

“Well, you got through most of it, anyway. You’d just gotten out of the cuffs when you dropped.”

“Good.” It was good. At least he wouldn’t have to face being chained up again with a guy wielding a knife facing him. He pushed himself upright. “Going to wash this off.”

He felt better after washing off the fake blood and the makeup they used to cover his scar. He slipped on one of the scarves he’d taken to wear in public whenever he wasn’t in makeup, the warmth around his neck strangely comforting. Jensen was still on the sofa when he came out of the tiny bathroom, arms spread along the backrest casually.

“Better?”

Misha shrugged off Cas’s stiff suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Jen. I didn’t mean to hold up production. I should have eaten, I just…”

“Don’t worry about it, Mish.”

Misha flopped back down onto the couch, leaning into Jensen. He smelled like the Impala, old leather and whiskey. Home. Misha inhaled deeply, resting his head on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“At least something good came of this, yeah?”

Misha exhaled slowly, glad that he could, and glad that he was now working and sharing his life with the surrogate family the remaining Supernatural crew had become. After the Incident, they’d been sure the show would go down the drain, but somehow, they had all rallied together, and now, three years on, they were still going strong, and becoming more like a community every day. Misha loved going to work now. He loved his new friends, his prank wars with Jared and his easy relationship with Jensen, but still the Incident hung over them like a heavy cloud some days. Misha never knew how he had survived – even his doctors had called it a miracle – and so many good people were just… gone. And Jensen and Jared, while settling their differences, never spoke of what had happened to them that day.

They were just sitting there for a while, breathing in tandem, when Jared burst in. Jared was like an overexcited puppy most of the time, but he could also be incredibly gentle, and now his voice was soft. “Misha, hey. I got them to stop the shoot for today. How are you?”

“I’m okay. Sorry for holding everyone up.”

“You know they understand.”

“Yeah.” Misha shifted a little.

Jared came closer and then flopped down right through Jensen, as if Jensen were no more substantial than a ghost. Jensen shot Misha an apologetic look from the area of Jared’s throat, then vanished. Misha screamed.

_~ Camp Chitaqua ~_

Cas screamed as the first Croat tore into him, trying to shrug them off and reach Dean’s hand, stretched down from the fire escape, but it was too far away and the Croats were pulling at him, and –

“Cas! Wake up!”

Cas snapped his jaw shut, breathing a sigh of relief. He was home. He was in his and Dean’s cabin, and it had all just been a nightmare. He hated dreaming with a passion. “You couldn’t have woken me sooner, could you?” he growled at Chuck, who was sitting at his bedside.

“Sorry. Bad trip?”

Cas rubbed his eyes, sitting up. He was way too sober. “Bad dream.” Since Dean and he had… well, there was nothing romantic about what they had, but they were each other’s rock in the storm, and it was enough to keep him away from any of the psychedelics. The pain meds were a necessity, but Dean was Cas’s indulgence now. He was enough, even though Cas really, really hated how often he woke up alone. He scrambled out of the sheets, pulling on his pants. “Dean gone on a mission already?”

Chuck didn’t answer, making Cas turn to him.

“What?”

Chuck looked sad, stricken, almost. “How much did you take?”

“Take? I didn’t take anything except for a Vicodin for the pain, and that was yesterday evening. What the hell, Chuck?”

The prophet’s back was bowed by unbearable sadness; he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dean’s gone, Cas.”

Cas rolled his eyes, not getting the joke. “Yeah, I figured as much.”

“No, I mean…” Chuck stood and pulled Cas out of the cabin by his wrist, barely giving him time to slip into his sandals. He dragged him to the back of the cabin, where the old tree stood.

There was a wooden cross there. A wooden cross with the initials _DW_ engraved into the rotting bark and a withering wild rose laid out before it.


	2. Chapter 2

_~ A Garden at the End of the World ~_

Dean wasn’t entirely sure what had happened, only that _something_ had. One second, he had been brooding over a map of the States, trying to figure out where the _fuck_ the demons were taking the Colt, the next he was standing in a garden, way too close to a beehive for comfort. Dean wasn’t afraid of bees – he wasn’t afraid of anything, anymore, but he really could do without this shit in his life. If Cas had mixed some drug into his coffee, Dean was going to let him rot in his own cabin for a week. And put him on double guard duty.

Dean pinched his arm, and jerked when that did nothing but leave a painful pinch mark. Not asleep, then. He pulled his gun from the thigh holster, bringing it up. Angels were out. The only other beings that might be able to pull shit like this were the demons, and Lucifer.

He carefully circled around the garden, keeping his back to the low brick wall and thick hedge that surrounded it, bringing distance between himself and the bees. The garden was a well-tended imitation of wilderness, lawn and flowers carefully selected and contained, a clear path cut towards the beehives and around a natural pond area. It was sickeningly beautiful and normal, and Dean had no idea such places still existed – unless he was dreaming after all.

“All right, guys. I don’t have time for these games. Show yourself.”

The voice he heard, coming from his left, wasn’t one he had expected. “Dean?”

He swiveled around, his gun coming to rest on… well, something that looked like Cas. He was wearing a flower crown, which – yeah, okay – Cas might, but he appeared perfectly sober, his expression retaining a basic serenity that had vanished for good when Cas – the _real Cas_ – had lost the last of his grace. There might be very human astonishment shining his eyes, but Cas’s usual sarcastic edge was entirely absent. “You’re not him,” Dean said.

The would-be Cas raised a hand, non-threateningly. “Dean, put down the weapon. I don’t know how you got here, but I will help you find out.”

“Stop pretending!” Dean sneered. “You’re not Cas!” He aimed at the fake’s midsection, and pulled the trigger.

To his absolute astonishment, the fake groaned and stumbled back a step, but when he pressed his hand over the wound, there was a soft, blue glow, and would-be Cas straightened, a bullet in hand. The wound was gone, erased down to the tear in the fabric of the shirt he wore. “I cannot prove who I am to you, Dean. I can only give you my word that I am Castiel – maybe not the one you know, but I am he. You carry no weapon that’ll harm me, so please – please let us talk. I can see you’re not of this place and time. If I can, I will return you.”

“You could be Lucifer,” Dean said, not lowering his gun. It might be useless, or it might slow the guy down a bit. He obviously had some sort of grace, but even so it might take him a while to get back up if Dean emptied the clip into his head.

‘Cas’ tilted his head. “I am not… Lucifer. In my timeline, Lucifer was trapped in the cage again.”

“Sure. As if it were that simple.”

“It wasn’t.” The fake lowered his gaze. “Dean… it is good to see you human.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His Cas had called Dean many things lately, but _human_ hadn’t been one of them since he’d started torturing again. They had a rule about not bringing this stuff up. Dean didn’t call Cas _angel_ anymore either.

“That is a very long story,” would-be Cas said. His eyes were shining with emotions Dean found surprising. His Cas was always sort of… numb, but this one had pain and grief and sorrow all spilling out of his expression. He gestured to the garden path he’d just come along. “Please come inside. I will try to find out what happened to you.”

“Uh uh. You first.”

‘Cas’ shrugged, and, to Dean’s utter astonishment, complied.


	3. Chapter 3

_~ Terris Concordae ~_

Jensen woke up to Misha staring at him. That wasn’t exactly new – however, waking up when a second ago he had been on set, shooting, definitely was. And Misha’s getup was something else.

“What the hell, man?”

Misha cocked his head, and Jensen caught a glimpse of a pointed ear peeking out of the unruly curls of his hair.

“I get the elven gig is kinda in right now, but really, Mish? Was it worth the joke to disrupt shooting and let me fall asleep?” Jensen pushed himself upright in the chair, running a hand over his face. He felt slightly drowsy still, but he trusted Misha not to have spiked his coffee or hit him over the head. With Jared around, he could never be entirely certain, but _Misha_ wouldn’t go that far for a prank. Not that Jared would hurt him on purpose either, not anymore anyways. It was his own fault for falling asleep, but Misha really should have woken him up. They’d been in the middle of the shoot!

Misha, however, didn’t even look remotely apologetic. He just looked… intrigued. “Jensen.” He said the name as if he were tasting it, then reached out to cup Jensen’s cheek.

Jensen leaned into the familiar touch immediately. If this was what he was getting out of the prank, he was down with it. But Misha’s thumb only brushed lightly over his cheek once before he dropped his hand again, staring at it instead of Jensen, his eyes glistening. The shirt he was wearing wasn’t as bad as some of the stuff Jensen had seen on Misha, but it was still ridiculously flashy: a black button down with a velvety burnout pattern down the front and sparkly buttons at the sleeves. And then of course there were the ears. Jensen hadn’t taken Misha for much of a Lord of the Rings geek, but maybe he had just pinched the ears from the makeup trailer because they were handy. They looked damn well done, though, the latex merging seamlessly with Misha’s own ears.

Jensen sighed against Misha’s uncharacteristic silence and reached forward to flip at Misha’s right ear. “What’s with these things, Mish?”

Misha flinched, peering up at him between his lashes. God, his eyes were beautiful in the dim light. “I know I took quite a lot, but I didn’t think it was this much.”

“Took? Mish, what are you talking about?” Jensen abandoned his teasing, cupping Misha’s chin. If this was a prank, it was a damn bad one. “Mish, you’re starting to worry me.”

Misha gave a dry laugh, pulling his chin away. “Worry you! You’re not even real!”

“What?”

Misha pushed himself off his chair, shaking his head. “No. I’m not going to indulge a hallucination. I just went into the green room to nap, so you can leave now. I don’t want you.”

“Green room? Misha, what-?”

Now that Misha had turned his back, Jensen finally focused on their surroundings. They were in a small, wood paneled room with a sofa and a few scattered chairs, and the diffuse light came from a globe-like lamp on the wall. The doorway was covered by a heavy curtain, and Jensen couldn’t glimpse beyond. He had no idea where he was – this certainly wasn’t the Supernatural set anymore.

“Misha, where are we?” Unease began pooling in his gut. The last time he had ended up somewhere, he had come back to find half of the crew dead, and Misha in hospital barely alive, and he had been wherever-it-was with Jared, and to this date he didn’t know what the hell exactly had happened. But the Incident had led to a lot of good, too, and one of these was him and Misha. If Jensen could trust in anything, he could trust in that. “Mish?”

Misha’s shoulders shook. “I missed your voice. I missed your voice so much.” Misha’s voice was cracking, breaking around the words.

Jensen was on his feet in an instant, wrapping himself around the smaller man. “Mish. Hey, Mish. What’s going on? Shhh… You’re scaring me.”

Misha had melted into his touch, but now he turned around to bury his head in Jensen’s shoulder, gripping Jensen’s biceps painfully, his posture rigid. “You’re dead. You’re dead. You were dead. You are dead. I don’t know anymore.”

“What? This isn’t funny, Misha! Ditch the prank, okay!”

Misha’s grip only tightened. “There _is_ no fucking prank. I lost you. I thought I’d lost you for good, and now you’re here. How? How, Jensen?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Jensen prodded Misha’s shoulders, trying to get him to relax his bone-crushing grip. “Hey, let’s take it one question at the time, yeah?”

Misha nodded into his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“What’s with the ears?”

“I thought you liked my ears.”

“I do. I don’t get why you put latex points on them.”

“What?” Misha shifted in his arms, his grip relaxing, and looked up at Jensen. “I’m mostly elf, Jensen – and a bit of pixie, and human, and whatever else, but mostly elf. I have pointed ears. I have always had pointed ears.”

“No, what? There is no such thing as elves.”

Misha breathed in sharply. “As if you are fully human!”

Jensen threw his arms up. “I am!”

Misha slipped away from him, putting both a distance between them that made Jensen’s heart ache and closing off his expression. “One question at the time. What were you doing before you came here?”

“I was on set, shooting season nine. As were you, and Jared!”

Misha shook his head. “This is a theater, Jen. We work in theater. We’re the touring cast for the Supernatural musical. You played the lead role up until the, uh…” Misha swallowed hard, clearly chocking on tears. “The… the accident. Your turn.”

“Uh… I died?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn.”

The corner of Misha’s mouth jerked for the briefest of seconds. “So you’re not my Jensen, and you’re not a hallucination either. My Jensen would never have dissed my ears.”

So this wasn’t his Misha either, but it was still _Misha_. He smiled the same, dressed the same, smelled the same. Jensen tried not to pull a face. “You’re awfully calm about this.”

Misha-not-Misha shrugged. “Not like magic is anything new.” He wriggled his fingers, and a blue flame sprang up from them. Jensen stared, flabbergasted. Misha didn’t notice, letting the flame fade and continuing calmly, “What is it, then? Different dimension? At least you and I are still together, not like Dean and Cas.”

The flame disappeared fully, and Jensen blinked. Okay. Elves and magic were real. Somehow, supernatural monsters would have been easier to handle. He chuckled, nervous. “Yeah. So, uh, musical theater?”

“Well, I’m not much of a singer, but I can act and dance.” Misha twirled, looking actually fairly graceful at it. “You, of course, had the best voice of the troupe.”

Jensen couldn’t help laughing. “My Misha can’t dance for shit.”

Not-Misha smiled, one of his sincere, easy smiles that made his eyes shine, before his expression suddenly shifted over to a grimace and he averted his eyes, his shoulders hunching. “So you’re together. And you’re both alive. And you need to go back. Of course. I couldn’t… I couldn’t do this to him. To me. To anyone.”


	4. Chapter 4

_~ The Impala ~_

Dean fully expected to die. They had messed shit up, big time, and there was no getting away. He had just gotten rid of the Mark in time to regret it and their whole pile of horrible, selfish, shortsighted decisions that had brought them here. As they cowered in their seats and watched the stormfront head towards them, he only hoped that Cas was okay.

****

When the clouds cleared, everything still looked normal. The Impala was still intact, and Sam was still alive. Dean was also still alive, but, Sam was surprised to discover, entirely unconscious. He had no idea what might have knocked his brother out; or maybe it had just been the exhaustion. Sam stiffly climbed out the car, pulled Dean into his seat and started on hefting the Impala out of the pothole.

He headed to the warehouse where he’d left Cas first. He should have called him. He should have called Cas and called the plan off as soon as he’d known what Dean was doing. He had been so worried for Dean, but if they had gone through with Death’s plan, Cas wouldn’t have needed to work the spell; in fact, working the spell would have been the worst possible idea. It might still have been the worst possible idea, but at any rate, there would have been time for it after Death was… well, dead? He should have called Cas. Why hadn’t he called Cas?

Dean remained unconscious when Sam rolled to a stop at the warehouse, so he left him in the car, and headed inside. He found Rowena and Crowley gone, and Cas sprawled on the ground, spread-eagled, his face – his eyes smeared with blood, and his angel blade still grasped in his hand.

“Oh no.” Sam had seen those smears before – they were symptoms of Rowena’s pet curse – and he’d only been able to observe them on corpses. “No, no, no, no.” How did you check for life on angels?

Sam crouched down beside Cas, holding the back of his hand over his mouth. At least Cas’s eyes were closed, so he might just be… There was a small huff of breath, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief so profound it took his breath away. “Thank heaven.” He patted Cas’s shoulder. “Cas, hey.”

Cas twitched slightly, but didn’t wake up. Fan-friggin’-tastic.

In the end, Sam carried him to the car. Dean was still out cold, too, and there was nothing left in the warehouse that was of any value. Rowena had taken the books, and who knew what had happened to Crowley, who knew what had happened to the Darkness, whatever it was. Everything looked calm and quiet and normal.

The only thing Sam could do was return to the Bunker, and regroup. And so he did.

****

Cas came to with a jolt in the middle of the drive, startling the heck out of Sam. He looked about him confusedly for a second, his eyes clear, thankfully, and said one word, “Chaos”, before slipping back under. Sam really didn’t know what to make of the sudden affliction that seemed to have befallen both the angel and his brother.

He parked the Impala in the garage, and nearly broke his back carrying the two unconscious men down the stairs and into Dean’s bedroom. It was just easier to have them both in one place, easier to keep an eye on them. Cas was still twitching occasionally, his fingers shaking as if he were just on the cusp of waking up, but Dean remained out cold.

Sam went to get his laptop and a chair and settled down keep vigil, because what else was there to do?

****

When Cas woke up, it was less dramatic than the time in the car, but it also took much longer. Sam felt it before he knew what it was – a sudden, low level electric charge in the room, like static electricity, or some sort of high pitched whine, and then Cas’s eyes were open. Sam had cleaned away the blood as best as he could, and Cas actually looked perfectly normal now.

“Hey.”

“Sam.” Cas pushed himself upright, finding Dean beside him. He moved his hand to Dean’s forehead, closing his eyes for a moment, then breathed out a sigh. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“What did happen? There was this… Darkness thing, and Dean’s just…”

“He is unconscious, but I think he will awaken shortly.” Castiel swung his feet off the bed. “I hadn’t realized there was a connection.”

“A connection?”

“Between the Mark and Chaos.”

“You’ve said that before, in the car.”

Cas really didn’t look pleased. “Yes. I can feel it, even now.”

“But the cloud was just… gone.” Sam had closed his eyes, but after a few earth-shaking moments, he had looked up the find the sky perfectly clear, and no sign of any evil cloud anywhere.

“Not gone, Sam. Chaos is… in its concentrated form, it manifests as darkness, a storm cloud. Demons carry an element of that same darkness, this is why their essence is-“

“Black smoke.”

“Yes. But Chaos doesn’t take a form, Sam. It permeates… everything.”

“What does that mean, and what does it have to do with Dean, or you?”

Cas folded his hands in his lap and stared down at them. “The first battle against Darkness was before my brothers and I were created. There were only the archangels, then. There was no life. But just before Lucifer fell, a portion of Chaos was released. It must have been when he passed on the Mark to Cain, but I cannot be certain. That… Chaos spread and travelled through people, disrupting balances of power, friendships, relationships, even diplomatic relations between countries. We were able to contain it, but many wars sprung from it, and many more families were destroyed.”

“Okay, so it’s bad.”

Cas gave a brief nod. “Chaos strives on… disruption. It doesn’t have a purpose, exactly, or a goal, but it destroys all that is good and stable and twists these connections until there is nothing left but isolated nuclei who will buckle under the strain.”

“So, we need to pull together, fight this thing. We’ve done stuff like this before.”

“It won’t be just us, Sam. By now, Chaos will have spread everywhere. This… the Apocalypse was a preplanned event, with a determined end. This is pure destruction. It is much, much worse, and it will eat away at everything you’ve ever believed to be fixed.”

“This is our mess, so we’ll fix it.”

“Sam, you aren’t listening. It cannot be fixed. Think of the world as a glass of water. If I put one drop of ink in it, it will spread through the whole glass, coloring it. It was only one drop, but the entire glass has been colored, and it is impossible to remove the drop of ink again.”

Sam bit his lip. “So what, we’ve brought about the end of the world?”

“It might still be possible to contain the effect to a small area. Quite possibly, Heaven has noticed by now, and Hannah will know what to do. With the garrisons at her disposal, she might be able to contain Chaos to the United States for now. But the garrisons are much diminished – so many have died, and there are still limitations imposed by Metatron we haven’t been able to fix. I–” Cas bent forward suddenly, his hand coming up to his forehead. “I don’t know how much longer I can fight it.”

Sam started forward in concern. “Fight? Fight what?”

“ _Chaos_ ,” Cas ground out between his teeth. “Because of your proximity to where it first emerged, it has latched onto Dean as the former bearer of the Mark. His relationship with you is already fraught with problems, so you will be unaffected, but Dean’s relationship with myself was… it was stable. There are things that… disrupted it, but the effect was always brief and never able to touch the core of our relationship. It was a perfect point for the Chaos to attack, and it is attempting to rewrite my… faith in Dean. Through our bond, it might have spread to other universes, but maybe it has not spread much further because of it.”

In the barrage of Cas’s information and concern, Sam forgot to protest against the unflattering characterization of his relationship with his brother. “Sorry, other universes?”

“You remember the alternate reality Balthazar send you to, and the possible future Dean witnessed? There are countless such multiverses, Sam, but if I am right, Chaos might still be contained within myself and Dean. If we can find a way to trap it–”

“Hang on! Are we talking a _new_ Mark of Cain?”

Castiel caught his eye and shook his head slowly. “I simply don’t know, Sam. After what happened with Metatron, I won’t be welcome in Heaven, or I would have consulted the archives. I’m not even sure about the extent of –” He sighed, his eyes closing. “I’m sorry, I just…”

Sam clasped his arm. “Cas, focus! A new Mark! Would that stop the Chaos in its tracks?”

“Yes – if I’m right. But nobody but God is left who has the power to create such a Mark, Sam. Besides, I don’t know what the effects would be. After all we have done to free Dean from the Mark…”

Suddenly, Dean, up to now motionless in his unconsciousness, shifted and jolted upright, wide-eyed. “What’s going on?”

Cas’s attention was immediately on him, and Sam also scanned his brother carefully. He looked fine enough – tired and wound down, but normal, less burdened than he had been with the Mark. Brighter, somehow.

Castiel reached out for him slowly, but to Sam’s utter astonishment, Dean recoiled from the touch. Cas looked as if he’d been slapped. “Dean…”

“Dude, _why_ are you on my bed?”

“My fault,” Sam said, taken aback by Dean’s gruff tone, “was easier to carry both of you in here to keep an eye on you than fix up a bedroom for Cas first.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want you in here,” Dean said, turning his back on them, “all you ever do is screw things up for us.”

Castiel avoided Sam’s worried gaze when he rose, avoided looking at anything at all, keeping his gaze fixed to the ground. “I will leave.”

“Cas–” Sam began, but Dean cut him off.

“No, let him. Not like he was of any use, right?”

Cas fumbled with the doorknob, and Sam could have sworn his hand was shaking, but he left the room without looking back.

Sam exploded as soon as he was gone. “What the hell, Dean! All Cas has done for the last _months_ was try and help you! He’s been on the road all the time, looking for a cure. You came this close to killing him when you had the Mark, and he still wouldn’t give up on you! He would _never_ give up on you, even though he probably understood what risks we were taking better than I did! And you’re being an absolute _ass_!”

Dean stared back at him, his eyes flaring with anger of his own. “Oh yeah? Where was he, then, when I prayed to him to say goodbye? Where was he when I was drowning in bloodlust and _you_ were doing stuff behind my back? How come he only called us when he needed help with Claire? How come he lied into my face _countless_ times, how come he never listens to what I have to say – not that you do, either – and always ends up messing things up! This has been going on for years! Years, Sam! And now what? The Darkness?”

Sam was profoundly glad that Cas was no longer around to hear it all. “You don’t mean that, Dean.”

“Don’t I? Cas was never by my side when I needed him. When the Apocalypse went down, he was looking for God. Then he was off in Heaven while we were dealing with freak monster shit, and when he came back, he brought the Leviathan, and then left us alone with those, as well. And where was he in Purgatory? And then there was _another_ angelic civil war. He just never sticks around, no matter how much we need him. One hell of a guardian angel!”

“Dean!”

Dean snapped his mouth shut, but the anger didn’t fade from his eyes. “What?!”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little unfair to Cas, here? All he did was trying to help us, help you.”

“See, Sam, the thing is, I don’t believe that anymore. I think he just does what he thinks is right, and it’s nothing to do with you, or me. Oh, he might pretend, might say as much, but all he ever does is _leave_!”

Suddenly, the pieces snapped into place in Sam’s mind. “Chaos.”

“What?”

“The… Darkness. Cas says, it’s Chaos. It’s making you say those things.”

“Oh, _Cas_ says! No, Sam. The _Mark_ was making me do things. This is all me, seeing clearly for the first time in months, and tell you what, I want nothing more to do with that wayward angel out there and his false promises of faith and friendship, only to be stabbed in the back by him later.” Dean turned away, aggressively tugging at the drawer that held his shirts.

Sam sighed. He knew well that it was no good to talk to Dean when he was in such a mood, and he had to find Cas. “I want you to think carefully about what you’re saying, Dean.”

Dean just huffed, and Sam left his brother to be an asshole on his own. If Cas was right, it wasn’t Dean’s fault, but Cas… Cas had known what was going on, and Cas had been fighting against it, but maybe that was because Cas was an angel, and Dean was only human, after all – _thankfully_ , but to their disadvantage. Sam just hoped he wasn’t going to have another such conversation when he found Cas.

****

Cas was easier to find than Sam had thought. For a moment, he had feared that the angel had truly left – left the bunker and them behind, never to return. But Cas was seated in the library, staring down at his hands with deceptive calm. He got to his feet as soon as Sam entered. “Sam. How is he?”

Sam ran a hand over his face. He had heard that same question too often lately, both through the speaker of his mobile and knocking about in his own head. “Belligerent. It’s only the Chaos messing with him, right?”

Cas moved his head, not quite a nod, but not quite a headshake, either. “I…” He glanced down again. “He is only human. I can only expect so much.” It sounded as if Cas were trying to convince himself.

Sam grasped his elbow. “Please tell me it’s not getting to you, too.”

To his astonishment, Cas’s hand closed around Sam’s other arm with the desperation of a drowning man, and when he looked up at Sam, there was pure fear in his eyes. “Sam, I consider you my friend, and you are Dean’s brother. You must keep reminding us. If we lose ourselves to the Chaos, if we fall apart in this universe and all the others, it will have achieved its goal and move on. We cannot allow that to happen.”

“No, I know. I won’t. Dean said those things only because it’s messing with him, Cas.”

Cas averted his gaze, uncertainty in the set of his shoulders, but his grip on Sam’s arm never loosened. “I know. I trust you. But it feels…” He inhaled sharply. “It feels as if I’m falling from faith all over again. I find it difficult to… remember his regard for me. I find it difficult to remember why I put so much faith and trust in such a human, Righteous Man or not.”

“Cas, hey.” Sam shook his arm, getting Cas to look up at him. “I know Dean was nasty to you when he was under control of the Mark, but that was the Mark speaking, okay? Dean was never one for faith, but he believed in _you_. He trusted you enough to get him out of being Michael’s vessel, he refused to doubt you even when you were working with Crowley, he found you in Purgatory, and he never wanted to send you away when you were human. It broke him when we thought you’d died. He was having _nightmares_ , Cas. You’re family, and he needs you as much as he’s ever needed me. Maybe more.”

Cas had been nodding along, and finally released Sam’s arm. “Thank you, Sam.”

“’s alright.” Sam patted Cas’s upper arm reassuringly. “Tell me when it gets too much? You don’t have to fight this alone, Cas.”

Cas just nodded once more, his expression serious. “We need to act speedily. You need to speak to Dean. It is probably best if I’m not in the room – I will be in the library. Maybe I can find references to the Darkness in the old texts.”

“Okay, yeah.” Sam let Castiel move away, confident that the angel was nowhere near ready to give in.

Castiel, however, stopped at the door. “Sam, I…” He trailed off, as if gathering his strength for what he was going to say. “I would stay with Dean for eternity.” Cas’s hushed tones made it sound like a confession, and the sincerity of it took Sam’s breath away. There was so much more hidden under those words, so many layers of affection, adoration, faith, trust and _love_. And of course Sam had seen the fondness with which Cas had watched Dean, the ease with which Cas picked up human mannerism from Dean, but from not Sam. He had witnessed Cas’s determination to save Dean, and yes, Sam had told Dean time and time again that he was loved by Cas and him, but somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that the angel was feeling so deeply. He’d thought that they were all Cas had left, that they were family, that Cas was a brother, and that they _were_ – but between Cas and Dean, there was something else – a “more profound bond”?

But before he could say anything, Cas had picked up his pace and was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

_~ Camp Chitaqua ~_

Cas fell to his knees before the cross, feeling boneless, adrift. “Chuck, if this is a fucking joke, I will feed you to the Croats,” he ground out, but there was no force behind it. He had no energy left for anger, a cold numbness settling into his bones that had nothing to do with the fact that the wetness of the ground was seeping into his pants, nor with the painful weight of his paralyzed wings.

“Sorry,” Chuck said, and Cas closed his eyes. Proof, then, that he had finally gone insane. That being human, or as good as, being in chronic pain, being isolated for the first time in his long existence, had broken him. Cas had never felt so alone.

“How?” He was surprised to hear his voice cracking, and reached up to find tears seeping out from behind his closed eyelids and spilling silently over his cheeks. He thought of Dean, of what he thought had been the night before. It had been a quiet night. Dean wasn’t drunk or torture-driven, and Cas wasn’t high. They had hidden in their bed from the destruction of the outside world, losing themselves in wordless kisses and mapping out each other’s bodies. But it hadn’t happened, or if it had, it had been some time ago. And now Cas was alone.

“Demons teamed up with Croats on a supply run. They were gunning for him and you. He saved your life, but the wound was too deep. He died on the ride home.”

Cas wracked his memory for the fight, trying to figure out how he could have allowed Dean to die for him. Dying for the other when that was supposed to be Cas’s job. But he couldn’t remember. “Why can’t I remember?”

“I don’t know what you took, but you do it sometimes – when it gets too much. It always comes back.”

Cas didn’t want it to come back. He didn’t want a memory in which _Dean_ died for his own worthless existence, and in which he was watching it happen. He didn’t want to exist in a world where Dean Winchester was gone. “How long?”

“A month? You were out for the count for a while. You’re actually doing much better since we found some antidepressants.”

“I was an _angel_ , Chuck! We are not supposed to exist without purpose! That’s not something you can medicate away!”

“There _is_ purpose! Killing the Devil!”

“Without Dean?”

“For Dean, because he can’t anymore! Those were your words, Cas!”

Cas dug his fingers into the soil, bunching his hand into a fist. “I’m not a leader.” He really, really wasn’t. He was _useless_ , even when Dean was still around. Once, he would have been able to fight, able to sense demons, and able to tell if someone was infected. Now on the best of days he wasn’t stoned, or drunk. Really, human memory was so blurry and imprecise, but Cas knew that he’d shot holes in his with the pills and the booze: It shouldn’t have mattered because the world was ending and all he had to do was follow Dean ‘til the end. All he _could do_ was follow Dean. But Dean was gone.

Cas wondered how he was even still alive, not surprised at the thought of suicide at all, and wondered whether that was the reason they had found antidepressants for him. So he wouldn’t overdose, wouldn’t find the gun Dean had given him and end it right there and then.

“I know what you’re thinking, Cas,” Chuck said, sympathy in his voice.

“Do you?” Cas shot back bitterly, dragging a muddy hand over his face and not caring a bit that he smeared dirt all over it, creating a mess with his tears. “Is… is there any lead on the colt?”

“No. We haven’t… We captured a demon on the last run, but with Dean gone…”

“Right.” Cas pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his shoulders and the crushing feeling of emptiness near his heart. The pain was misdirected, of course – his grace hadn’t been localized in Jimmy’s body, not like a human soul, but spread through every molecule, nor had his wings ever really been on this physical plane, let alone attached to Jimmy’s shoulders, but it seemed the only way his practically human body could deal with the loss. Not for the first time Cas wished his body would just forget what he used to be.

Dean… Dean had lessened the pain near his heart. It had never gone away, of course not, but Dean had lessened it more effectively than any of the drugs. Now it was back full force.

Cas just wished he could remember Dean’s last words.

Stupid idiot should not have sacrificed himself for Cas. Cas wasn’t _worth_ that. He clenched his fists. “So we need someone to torture a demon?”

Chuck shrunk under his stare. “Well, yes. We’ve been focusing on supply runs, mostly. Trying to get back on our feet. With Risa gone too, there were… disagreements about leadership. You really don’t remember any of that?”

 _Risa too._ Cas shook his head. A month? What the hell _had_ he taken to erase a whole month? How the _hell_ had he become a leader to those people? He was nothing to them. He wasn’t even _one_ of them, despite it all, and he certainly was much worse than them in many respects. “Give me an hour to get ready, then call a meeting. Afterwards, we’ll see what to do about that demon.”  

Cas had been a soldier, _was_ a soldier – he knew how to deal with interrogation. Besides, it was only a demon, and demons had killed Dean. It was a surprise, really, that the demon was still alive.

Cas never got around to the meeting, however. He returned to their cabin – _his_ cabin, and for a moment just stood at the door staring at the bed. He could still remember him and Dean there, the night before – or what he thought had been the night before. What was it then – a false memory, a hallucination? The night before Dean died? Cas couldn’t remember Dean’s death, and he couldn’t remember the night before. Had they even spent it together, or had he been off in his old cabin, freezing and too high to care?

Cas resisted the temptation to crawl into the bed and see if Dean’s smell still clung to the sheets. Instead, he devoted his attention to the necessary pills on the bedside table, swallowing them dry, before he went into their tiny bathroom and bent over the bowl of stale water they kept there, splashing some of it into his face to wash off the muck and then scrubbed his hands. He’d need to fetch a new bowl from the only faucet with running water in the camp later, but that could wait. He was glad he was accustomed to ignoring his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t want to see the mark a single month of grieving, a single month _alone_ , had left on him.

Leaning on the table, Cas dug deep into his memory, trying to figure out what he had done the night before – what he had done the day before, or the day before that, but all he came up with was an image of Dean reclining back on the bed, swirling some whiskey around in a glass. It had been good whiskey too, from what Cas had tasted on his lips. It was probably the last decent bottle they’d had.

Cas closed his eyes to ward off the pain bouncing around in his chest, clutching the little rickety table on which they’d placed the washbowl. The pills should be kicking in soon, but he knew they would barely take the edge of, especially today. He had _buried_ Dean. He had buried _Dean_ right behind this very hut and he couldn’t remember. He felt ill.

Cas forced his eyes open, dragging in a sharp breath through his lips. The murky water in the bowl before him was swirling – his hands on the table were shaking.

It was then that he heard it, distorted at first. “Cas! Cas!”

His heart stuttered in his breast and he bit into his lip so hard it hurt.

“Cas!”

He snapped his head up, despite himself, expecting to meet his own eyes in the mirror. Instead, he met Dean’s.

Cas upended the bowl and punched the mirror.


	6. Chapter 6

_~ Vancouver ~_

Misha woke to the buzz of hospital lights and the slow drip-drip of an IV. The fact that he even recognized those sounds when he was barely half awake disturbed and annoyed him at the same time, and he forced his eyes open in defiance. How had he ended up in hospital _again_? Wasn’t it enough of an experience at hospitalization to survive having one’s throat cut by a lunatic?

“Misha! Hey! The doctors said you’d come around soon.”

Misha felt drowsy, like he could go right back to sleep – they’d drugged him, then. Fantastic. Misha understood the usefulness of drugs, he really did, but he was so tired of them. So, so tired. He blinked at the ceiling.

“Jen?” It was the first thing out of his mouth, barely more than a groan, even though he knew the person at his side wasn’t Jensen. He wanted to see him so bad it hurt, and he wanted to curl into a tight ball until he was there, but even the thought of moving was too much.

A large hand closed around his and squeezed. “Hey. No, it’s Jared. You know that, Misha.”

Misha hummed in his throat, glancing down his arm at the IV needle and Jared’s massive hand. He was so, so tired.

****

When he came to for the second time, Jensen still wasn’t there, but he was feeling much less groggy, and more like himself. The IV was gone, too, and it was dark outside. Jared was still there.

Misha mustered up a smile, shifting to his side. “Hey, Jared.”

Jared’s head jolted up from where he was fiddling with his phone – playing Sudoku or something, probably. “Misha! You finally awake?”

Misha considered this. He knew he’d been sort of awake before, but the fuzziness of his mind he had experienced then was gone now, and he could actually think. “Yeah. What happened?”

Jared’s brows pulled together. “I’m not really sure. Do you remember you fainted on set?”

“Yeah,” Misha said, ducking his head. He had gotten his panic attacks since the Incident mostly under control thanks to the new supportive climate on set, but when he’d first read the script of Cas facing off against his torturers, he’d lain awake most of the night anyway. But the scene was important for Cas’s story arc, and he’d gotten through that scene where he lost his grace in season eight… well, not _fine_ , but his mounting panic had only added to his performance, and Curtis had barely tickled his throat with the blade. Everything else had been CGI, anyway. There was no reason why this scene should be any worse. He shouldn’t have forgotten about lunch.

Jared reached over and patted his feet under the hospital blanket. “Hey, don’t worry.”

“I’m not… How did I end up here?”

“Well, you were in your trailer, resting. You seemed fine when I came to check on you, but as soon as I sat down… I don’t know, man. You just kinda jumped up and started screaming and then you curled up on the floor and just cried and cried. You wouldn’t stop, so I went to get help, and they called 911, and here we are.”

“Oh.” Misha couldn’t remember breaking down. He remembered cuddling with Jensen, though neither of them would ever call it that out loud, and then… “Fuck.” The image of Jared sinking right into Jensen as if he weren’t even there flickered up in Misha’s mind, frozen on the apologetic expression Jensen had thrown him. If he hadn’t been drugged up, he would have panicked again.

“Misha. Hey, calm down!” Jared was looming over him.

Misha pushed against him for space, crawling up against the headboard and hugging his knees. He literally could not freak out right now, his emotions softened, artificially toned down. “I’m okay. Stay away.”

Jared flopped back into his chair. “Sorry. Personal space issues again.”

Misha shook his head – not in denial, necessarily. He didn’t mind Jared getting close; he did mind him looming over him when Misha was feeling vulnerable. “Where’s Jen?”

Jared froze in his chair. “Uh…”

“What?”

Jared shot him a curious look, and then slowly pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

With Jared gone, Misha was free to examine the hospital room. It was a private room of course; with his history of assassination attempts, there was probably a bodyguard at the door too. Misha didn’t particularly like having bodyguards, but they were a necessary evil whenever he was out in public. They didn’t make him feel safe – only his friends did that – but their job was to keep the people who were the bad kind of crazy away from him, so he had come to tolerate them. He didn’t need them often, especially with Jensen and Jared there to pick him up and give him a ride home after shoots. Misha hadn’t driven himself since the Incident.

He was wearing his own PJs, which was nice, and Misha suspected he wouldn’t be here much longer. They would probably send him home with a few new pill bottles and a sick note, and that would be it. The IV had probably been for fluids. They didn’t need to know about his hallucination, and Misha wasn’t going to mention it. He was dealing, and if he had a bit of a relapse triggered by the scene, he would be fine in a day or two.

When Jared came back, a doctor was with him, looking professional where Jared looked worried. Misha stared at his friend’s expression, uncomprehending. “What?”

Jared just waved at the doctor, who extended her hand towards Misha. “Mr. Collins. Good to see you awake.”

Misha took the hand with a cordial nod. “Misha, please.”

“As you wish. How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I guess. Effexor?”

“Yes, your file said you used it before?”

“Yeah. It works.”

The doctor nodded. “Can you tell me which date it is, Misha?”

“Uh, I might have slept through a night? Either the 12th or 13th of October, 2013.”

“It is the 13th, very good. What it you birth name, Misha?”

“Dmitri Krushnic.” Misha looked at Jared, who was chewing his bottom lip. “What is this about?”

“Your friend Mr Padalecki told me you were asking after your co-star.”

“My partner, yes. Jensen.”

“Misha-“ Jared started, then stopped himself. The doctor nodded at him to continue. “Misha, Jensen died in June. In a car crash on the way home from the airport after Rome. You know that, right?”

Misha’s mind simply went blank. He might have hallucinated an image of Jensen before his collapse, fair enough, but he had had breakfast with the guy. He had driven to set with him. He had handed him off to Jared for their scenes while they got him ready in makeup. Jensen wasn’t dead.

Misha moved his lips but no sound came out.

The doctor’s gentle hand on his arm brought him back to the present. “Have you experienced memory lapses before, Misha?”

“Uh, no. I mean, I pretty much blanked out the assassination attempt, but that’s normal. Right?”

“Yes, the mind protects itself from traumatic events. It might be that this localized lapse is related to your most recent episode and you will be fine in the morning, but I will have you scheduled for an MRI just in case.”  

“Okay.”

After the doctor was gone, Misha curled into a ball under the blankets and squeezed his eyes shut until he fell asleep.

****

In the morning, he just wanted to go home.

There was nothing wrong with his brain, apparently, and Misha told them he remembered now, even if he didn’t. He couldn’t wrap his head around how this could be one of Jared’s pranks. He was hospitalized, for crying out loud. Surely that crossed a line?

But what if it wasn’t a prank? What if Misha had walked around for five months, thinking Jensen was still alive because he kept hallucinating him? But how was the show still running if Jensen was gone? It made no sense. They might have survived the death of several crewmembers, the near-murder of Misha himself and the shooting of their show’s creator, but Jensen was one of the leads. There was just no way.

Jared was still hovering around his room, though he gave Misha space, for which he was grateful. It was late afternoon by the time he cleared his throat to speak, forcing Misha to look up from the book he had been staring at, not reading a single sentence. October 14th. Canadian Thanksgiving. What a joke.

“Misha, I’m sorry.”

Misha plucked at a thread in the blanket. “What for.”

“The… springing it on you like that. Jensen’s accident. It messed you up badly, and I made it seem like it happened yesterday. I’m sorry.”

“’s not your fault,” Misha said, trying to bring some infliction into his voice. He welcomed the antidepressants – at least he couldn’t freak out even if he tried. He didn’t know what to believe, didn’t know what to do. Lying to the doctors was probably the worst fucking idea, but Misha just wanted to be home. With Jensen. And if Jensen was really gone, he would deal. Or come back and check himself in the psychiatric ward permanently because he had spent five months hallucinating his dead boyfriend.

“I should have been there for you more, but Gen was-“

“Stop it, Jay.”

Jared’s jaw clicked shut audibly and he cleared his throat. Misha could see his gigantic feet when he glanced through under the lower edge of his book. He didn’t feel like looking up.

“They’re letting you go home with me, you know. I… I’m gonna drop you at your house, because I know you need space, but I will check in with you every couple of hours. All right?”

Misha knew that he could either agree or stay, so he nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be okay, Jared, I… sorry I freaked you out.”

“It’s okay. Come here, you dork.” Jared stepped over and enveloped Misha in a hug. Misha rested his head against his shoulders and sighed, wishing it were Jensen, but he returned the hug all the same.

Jared was a good friend, a close friend, with a big heart under the exuberant exterior. Despite it all, Misha was glad he was there.

Misha extricated himself from the hug. “Hey, you got your script with you?”

“No, sorry, man. But don’t worry about the show. We’ve been dealing with stuff like this for the past three years, and we’re still running. The fans are awesome.”

They were. They had been his support system even when Jensen and Jared were still nasty to him, and then when he felt so out of place during their quarrel. Misha might share a bit too much with them sometimes, but his twitter persona was only a shield, a distortion of who he really was. But it was also a sort of diary – and of course his phone was still sitting at home, where Jared had taken it when he’d gone to fetch Misha’s overnight bag. Misha knew he would be checking his feed as soon as he could. All he’d wanted to see the script for was the call sheet.

Jared babbled nonsense at him, most of which Misha tuned out, until they were seated in the car and on the road. Misha didn’t mind car rides, but he could never really relax during them anymore. It didn’t help that he expected Jensen to pop up at any moment and shout ‘April Fool’s!’ Only it wasn’t April, nor was this in any way funny.

Jared was still talking, filling the silence. Misha was grateful. “Kate wanted to come by, but I told her it might not be such a good idea, so they’ve been shooting some solo Dean scenes – on her coverage. If we’re lucky, we might not even get behind schedule much.”

Misha nodded. He had no idea who Kate was, but apparently she was playing Dean. They had replaced Jensen with a woman, and he couldn’t remember _that_? They had only just shot an entire episode full of Dean and Cas, after all. Hell, Misha remembered messing around with _Jensen_ in the Impala. But it couldn’t have been Jensen, could it? Had he… had he flirted with this woman, thinking all along it was Jensen? The thought made him shudder.

“You’ve got chemistry, and she’s a treasure. The fans already love her. It’s still a bit freaky – for Sam, too. I don’t think Cas minds.”

“Cas wouldn’t,” Misha said and meant it. As long as it was still Dean, Cas wouldn’t care – but then, he’d just been human, so maybe exteriors were more important to him now. Misha didn’t particularly care for exteriors either, but Kate wasn’t Jensen. Genderswaps might be possible in the world of fiction, but if Jensen was dead, he was gone. Misha’s recovery might have been a miracle, but obviously Jensen hadn’t been as lucky.

“Sorry, Misha,” Jared said, as if he could read Misha’s mind.

Misha just shook his head and looked out of the window some more.

****

Back home, everything looked so normal but empty that Misha nearly broke down in the doorway. He pulled himself together for Jared’s sake, inhaling deliberately and deeply. It still smelled of home, and it couldn’t be home without Jensen.

“You’ll be okay? Gen…”

“I’ll be okay. Go to your wife.”

Jared nodded. “Yeah, uhm…”

“Really.” Misha dumped his overnight bag in the hallway. “I’ll be fine. You can call to check on me, if you need to. This is not the first time I’ve done this, Jay.”

“Okay. Just… take care and call me if you need anything, yeah? You’re family, Misha.”

Misha smiled, surprised to find it absolutely genuine. His co-stars had become something of a family after the Incident, and Misha always would be grateful for that. His Twitter crowd was a support, but it was also distant. Without family of his own – that was left, anyways – he only survived the past years thanks to the people he worked with. He never forgot that, even when he’d rather be on his own. He squeezed Jared’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

As soon as the door had closed behind his co-star, Misha found his phone and sat down on the sofa, logging onto Twitter. He didn’t really look at his mentions anymore – there were just too many to keep up – but today he skimmed quickly through the worried notes, trying to decide whether or not he should tweet, reassure his fans, but then decided that such a reassurance would be premature.

Jensen clearly wasn’t around, and hadn’t been around recently, either. The house had never felt so empty. Misha pulled a pillow closer, and read back through his tweets.

When he found them, his heart stopped beating. There were two tweets and they were uncharacteristically distant – if this had been a crewmember, Misha would have offered his condolences at least, to show some empathy, but this… Misha could feel the writer’s own, deeply personal grief that left no space for comforting anyone else – his grief, only that it hadn’t been, not until Jared had stood in front of his hospital bed and told him that Jensen had been dead for five months.

“#SPNFamily has lost a fabulous lead and a dear friend today.”

The second tweet was just a black and white photograph of Jensen, smiling brightly.

Misha stared at the photo on his phone for a while, then dropped it between the cushions and headed into the bedroom, images of Jensen shimmering before his eyes. Jensen after he’d gotten back from Italy. Jensen on the first day of shooting the new season. Jensen laughing so hard he was crying at the kitchen island. The two of them, together, going over scenes sitting cross-legged opposite each other on the mattress. The two of them curled up together after a long day on set.

Jensen wasn’t there now. Jensen wasn’t anywhere anymore. The bed was unmade, and the blanket messy on Misha’s right side of the bed. Because Jensen had been the one to make the bed. Because Misha couldn’t be bothered when he didn’t feel well.

Misha pushed the door closed behind him and sank down to the floor, hiding his head between his knees. He wanted to cry, but there were no tears coming. He just wanted the shaking to stop.


	7. Chapter 7

_~ Terris Concordae ~_

Jensen had expected a lot of things. He was in alternative universe, for fuck’s sake! And it wasn’t even the _Supernatural_ one. Instead, he had been whisked into some freak parallel dimension where sword-and-dragon magic was real and Misha was an elf and he was _dead_. And had been working in musical theater, which really topped it all. He didn’t like singing for an audience. He maybe had a little bit of talent, but he was nowhere near an educated singer. He was an actor. It occurred to him that he should probably freak out at this point, but this really wasn’t so much stranger than finding himself in a posh hotel room with Jared and discovering that outside the door was literal nothing. So yeah, he would have expected pretty much anything at this point, and taken it in stride. That included waking up in a hospital bed and being told that he’d been in a coma or something even though the last thing he remembered was falling asleep in his chair on set – if he was perfectly honest, that was the most reasonable explanation he could come up with, but then there had been no such solution to the Incident, either.

He had not expected fake-Misha to let out a broken chuckle, his legs buckling under him. He would have fallen if Jensen hadn’t had his hand on his elbow in an instant. He found himself staring at Misha’s Adams apple as it bobbed as he swallowed, not finding the scar that forever marked the day that had changed so much for all of them. Not his Misha. Right.  
“You okay?”

Misha shrugged, his eyes flickering over Jensen’s. “Might have miscalculated my dose a bit. Wasn’t exactly counting on transdimensional visitors today.”

Jensen stared at the eyes he knew so well and found an eerie light flickering in dark pupils, and golden spots dancing in the blue of his irises.

“Uh…”

“Bed. Upstairs.” Misha slipped one arm around Jensen’s waist and tugged him out of the door into a corridor – all Jensen could take in was more wooden paneling before he was jostled up a set of stairs into a sort of loft with several doors, and through the first one on the left into a bedroom.

It wasn’t so much tiny as it was cozy, sunlight filtering in through a skylight and illuminating the nest of pillows and blankets that served as a bed and the piles of books that surrounded it. The books weren’t what Jensen expected – they weren’t the leather bound volumes he’d have put into this fantasy novel setting, though there was a notebook sitting on the bed that was beautifully leather-bound, a fountain pen tugged onto the cover. All the other books looked modern, normal, all bright covers and cheap printing paper. However, there were also objects Jensen just couldn’t place, or even attempt to describe.

Misha tumbled down into the nest, pulling Jensen with him.

Jensen yelped, and fell uncomfortably onto the leather notebook, nearly nosediving into a pile of books to the side. There was a framed photograph balanced precariously on the pile, and Jensen found himself blinking at himself – or rather his alter ego and Misha on stage in costumes vaguely resembling Dean and Cas’s wardrobe, grinning in tandem at the audience. He choked down a gasp when photo-Misha suddenly slid his arm around photo-Jensen’s waist and pulled him into a deep bow that somehow ended with photo-Misha tugged against his side, his head on Jensen’s shoulder, Jensen’s own arm pulling him close and both their smiles absolutely dazzling. They radiated happiness.

Jensen couldn’t deny that he loved being on stage with Misha – Rome was the highlight of his year – but he was never this at ease in public, not even with Misha, not even amongst their fans. He just wasn’t a stage person, and the horror of what had happened on set still hung over them when they were amongst people doing their best to pretend that _Supernatural_ was more than just a TV show. After all, the police’s verdict had been that the lunatic who had attempted to murder Misha and had succeeded in shooting Eric and so many of the crew had somehow believed himself to be an enemy angel. Not that Jensen thought that his fans were lunatics, of course not. The fans were awesome, but in the end, Jensen had no more reason to trust them than strangers, and his trust in strangers had been severely shaken. This Jensen clearly thought differently – or he _had_.  

The real life equivalent of the Misha in the photo hummed behind him. “Didn’t know you liked ogling yourself.”

“I’m not… Jeeez, Mish, I wasn’t staring at myself… uhm, the photo moves.”

“Of course it moves.” Misha looked at him with his head tilted, as if he were wondering if this Jensen was an idiot or insane.

“Photos back home don’t,” Jensen said forcefully, feeling defensive. Misha was all lose limbs splayed out over the pillows, his eyes skittering over Jensen’s face, but no less piercing for their unsteadiness. He was keeping his distance, but it was so hard to think of him not as _his_ Misha.

“Alright.” Misha shrugged. “It’s the only one I’ve kept. Aeterna was always great to play at.”

The Misha Jensen knew was either a bubbly or a morose drunk, depending on his mood that day, and whatever drug this one had taken, he was clearly leaning towards the morose.

“Aeterna, huh?”

The elf’s eyes travelled over his face slowly before he answered, a sad but fond smile on his lips. “Yeah. Our city. You know, playing at home is fun and comfortable and all, but there is something about being on the Circuit… or there was.”

Jensen avoided the searching stare, suddenly uncomfortable with how close they still were. “Look, uh, Misha. I’m very sorry about your loss, but I’m not him, you know that, right?”

Misha inclined his head slightly. “I know.”

“So you know I can’t stick around here. I mean… I’m an actor, okay, not a show star or anything, and besides, my friends will miss me and…”

“ _He_ will.” Misha pulled himself up until he was sitting crosslegged, his back perfectly straight, and sighed. “How is he, Jensen?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Is he happy?”

Jensen stared at him, trying to come up with an answer. Was Misha happy? As if he hadn’t asked himself that for the last three years! They had gone through so much shit, and Misha felt so many things so keenly – his own past and feelings of unworthiness, his fans’ struggles, the injustices of the world, and nothing Jensen ever did seemed to fully lighten that load. But then he thought of Rome and Misha’s blinding smile after they had tumbled down onto the couch in the greenroom together and… “I like to think so, yeah.”

“That’s good.” This Misha looked close to crying, avoiding Jensen’s gaze and brushing a hand over his face.

“Look, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“No!” Misha’s gaze snapped up to his, and he placed a hand on Jensen’s arm before dropping it again. “Don’t apologize for that. Don’t _ever_ apologize for making other me happy. It’s not your fault I wasn’t this lucky.”

“You have too much heart for your own good.”

Misha made a face. “Stop it.”

Jensen swallowed down the instinct to wrap him up in his arms. _Not_ his Misha, not this Misha’s Jensen. “You understand why I need to get back, then.”

“Of course I do, Jen, but I… I have no idea how.”

“Can’t you just… flick your fingers?”

“Magic might be real, but no, I can’t do that. What I do is stage magic, Jen. Illusions and sensations, but nothing substantial, and certainly nothing as outlandish as dimensional travel.”

“Then what?”

“Well, you can’t go walking around.”

“Because I’m dead.”

Misha rubbed his neck, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah. We could ask Jared for help. He’ll keep his mouth shut.”

“Let me guess, he’s half-giant.”

Misha just blinked at him, non-plussed. “I don’t know about half, but yes, of course.”

“Jeez.” Jensen could just imagine it – the already tall sasquatch that was once again his friend back home was probably even more freakishly tall here. “Mish, come on, help me out here. This isn’t weird to you at all?”

Misha shrugged. “I might be too high to care.”

“You don’t seem high to me right now.”

“I’ve had better.” The elf avoided his gaze, shifting on the cushions. “So, talk to Jare?”

Jensen was aching to ask Misha about this self-destructive behavior – he hadn’t struck Jensen as the kind to succumb to drugs back in their universe, even though he was sure Misha tried everything once. Hell, since the Incident Misha barely even drank anymore because it brought back the memories. But then it was none of Jensen’s business what this Misha was doing, and to be honest, he was slightly afraid of the answer. He wouldn’t know what to do with the knowledge that Misha here was falling apart because Jensen was gone. “If you think Jared can help?”

“He does all the ritualistic magic for the show; he knows his shit. Hasn’t blown us up once.” Misha pulled his leather notebook to his chest, fingers closing tightly around it.

Jensen suspected what it was – his Misha was keeping one, too, for when it all was too much and he had to pour out his thoughts onto the page or combust. Sometimes it was poetry. Sometimes it was angry lines of text that had no place on his twitter. It wasn’t exactly a diary, but then Jensen had never seen it, so he couldn’t be entirely sure. But he could still read Misha’s body language, even in this lither, elfish version. “You don’t like the idea.”

Misha wasn’t meeting his eyes. Not a good sign. “I want you to be able to get back.”

“But…”

“But if Jared turns up here and it turns out you weren’t real after all he’s not going to let me perform.” Misha’s hand shot out, grasping Jensen’s wrist with force. “I _need_ to perform, Jen; if I can’t be on stage I am going to fall apart.”

The force of the confession, the desperation nearly struck Jensen dumb. “Right, okay. I’m real, Mish.”

“That’s what a hallucination would say.”

“Can we not have this discussion? Seriously, this situation is weird enough without me having to prove I’m real to you – for all I know, you’re the one who isn’t real.”

Misha barked a laugh, but it was a painful, self-deprecating sound. “Why would you hallucinate someone like me?” He let go of Jensen’s hand and placed the notebook somewhere to the side of the bed. “I’ll go get Jared.”


	8. Chapter 8

_~ A Garden at the End of the World ~_

Dean was getting weird vibes from this garden. It looked way too picturesque, way too perfect. Maybe part of it was him coming right from the middle of a raging apocalypse, but this was just… it was picture-perfect, and it gave him the creeps. He kept fake-Cas in front of him and within the range of his pistol, even if he had just been demonstrated the limited usefulness of that weapon. He should have taken the angel blade out on this run – only that he didn’t even remember going out for the run at all. Last he remembered, he’d fallen asleep next to Cas – the real Cas, _his_ Cas, that stupid idiot of a hippie who still stuck around Dean even after Dean had taken everything he could possibly give and had given him nothing in return. And because Dean was an asshole like that, he had crawled out at the crack of dawn to look over the maps instead of sticking around to wait until Cas woke up. He hadn’t left the camp, though, he was sure of that, and nothing could have nicked him from there. Cas wasn’t much good for anything these days, but he knew his sigils.

Whatever had brought Dean here had to have some serious mojo – like angel level mojo, and this guy – Cas or whoever he was, had that kind of power. Dean couldn’t have trusted him less.

He led Dean towards a small cottage, shoulders squared but no more agitated than he had been back in the garden. He carefully opened the door and stepped inside, waiting for Dean to follow after him.

Dean wasn’t sure what he had expected, but this serene space wasn’t it. He had seen Cas’s cabin, and it was nowhere as neat as this. It was a painful mess, an accumulation of artefacts, blankets and drugs, the atmosphere heady with cheap incense and often freezing cold because Cas didn’t have a fireplace, nor was his cabin hooked up to the generator for a space heater, as Dean’s was. Cas had other ways of heating up his cabin, but they didn’t talk about that. It wasn’t like Dean didn’t know that he was the worst that could have happened to the angel, and even Cas had stopped protesting that sentiment, so Dean gave him his space. More often than not, Cas ended up in his cabin afterwards anyway and, though the scent of sex and ejaculate clung to him, he didn’t seem to have gotten off himself. Dean wondered about that, but it wasn’t his place to ask. Sometimes they had sex, then. More often than not, they just crawled under the blankets together and wrapped themselves around the other, clinging until sleep and their nightmares took them.

This cottage was airy and orderly, and the only smell in the air was that of honey and flowers. Dean did a quick swipe of the room, finding only one closed door with a tiny bedroom behind it – it was barely larger than the double bed it held. There was no one else there – only a scrawny cat curled up at the foot of the bed that stared at him balefully when he burst through the door.

Dean turned his back to the bedroom, lowered his weapon and looked over the living space. The ceiling was low, but the windows were arranged for maximum light. The whitewashed walls and pinewood paneling of the cupboards and kitchen aisle left the space bright and appearing larger than it was. There was no bathroom Dean could see, but he had spotted an outhouse, and he supposed that if this fake-Cas was an angel, he wouldn’t think about bathrooms. He knew _his_ Cas hadn’t, until he had suddenly needed them. That had been an embarrassing moment for them both.

Fake-Cas watched him with a patient expression now, his hands held easily by his side. He looked healthier than Dean’s Cas, his frame more ample, his shirt loose but not painfully so, and the flower crown was really too much. It occurred to Dean that the guy could have flitted away or behind him at any point, but he was just standing there, watching with indulgence and… was that fondness?

Dean scowled, holstering his gun. “What?”

Fake-Cas shrugged. “I was just remembering our first meeting.”

“Dude, I don’t know you?”

Cas went on as if Dean hadn’t spoken, “Well, the first meeting in these bodies, anyway. You stabbed me.”

“Yeah, after emptying my shotgun into your chest!” Dean said, despite himself. “You didn’t even slow down.” So much had changed since then. Now, if Cas was stabbed in the heart, he would die. Not even Cas could tell Dean what would happen to him, after. Perhaps he’d go to Hell for standing against Heaven. Dean certainly didn’t expect to end up anywhere else. Heaven might not even exist, anymore.

“Back then I had the powers of Heaven behind me,” fake-Cas replied, his gaze shifting to the floor. “I was just thinking that there was something comforting about the fact that every version of you responds the same to situations you can’t understand.”

Dean squared his shoulders. “All right, let’s drop this charade. Who are you, really, and how did I get here?”

“I _am_ Cas. A version of him, anyway. I don’t know how you got here, but I can try to bring you back.”

Dean waved about the cottage. “What is this place, then?”

“It’s my home.”

“Dude, you’re still an angel. What the hell are you doing, keeping bees?”

Cas looked sheepish all of a sudden, and it was not an expression Dean had ever seen on him. “If you want to understand, truly, there is much I have to tell you. As much as I might wish you would stay, I… I can’t allow it and remain with a clear conscience. Don’t you want to go back?”

Dean made himself comfortable on the sofa, trying to regain some command over the room even as he felt his control slipping. What could he do against this guy, anyway? He couldn’t prove he _wasn’t_ Cas – if he wasn’t, he knew a lot of stuff, and hell, he’d seen crazier stuff. Different dimensions, to hell with it. It had been too long since they’d had proper, _nice_ furniture. This was heaven. Now, that was a thought. “Hang on, is this Heaven?”

Cas huffed a disquieting laugh. “No. No. Were you expecting me to be in your Heaven?” There was a second question there; Dean could sense it – _were you expecting to go to Heaven?_ – but he decided against calling the angel out on it.

Dean shrugged. “I suppose, if there was anyone, it would be you. Other you, anyway.”

Cas moved, settling down in the wicker chair opposite Dean, carefully shifting so the cushion was in his back – as if everything needed to be just as picture-perfect as this whole place. Dean half expected to see the cat coming out to settle on Cas’s lap, but it made no appearance.

“You believe me, then, when I say that you have been transported to an alternative dimension?” Cas asked.

Dean looked him up and down, trying to figure out how to talk to this guy who was Cas but not Cas. It had become easy to talk to his Cas lately. When the guy was stoned, which was often, Dean knew better than to bother with anything but business, lest he wanted to invite Cas’s scorn and ridicule. When he was at least partly sober, however, when they were alone… well, they didn’t have much need for words, but sometimes Dean found himself just talking and talking and talking, because Cas was the only one who really knew, the only one who understood, the only one who had time to listen to the semi-insane ramblings of his fellow humans. There was a reason people turned to Cas as much for spiritual guidance as for the physical release. He was just so good at listening, and he didn’t judge – anyone but Dean, at least, but even with Dean, he was a different person in the quiet of their cabin than he was in public.  

“I’m going to roll with it for now. What happened to you, man? I’ve seen that look on my Cas when he’s stoned to the gills.”

Cas looked down at his hands. “What year are you from?”

“Uh, 2013. Not that it matters. It’s the Apocalypse where I’m from.”

Cas nodded. “I gathered. In my dimension the apocalypse was averted – that one, at any rate. But a few years from then, Dean – my Dean – took on the Mark of Cain to fight against the Knights of Hell.”

Dean had never heard of either, but he wasn’t surprised to learn of more nastiness, not anymore. As if Horsemen weren’t bad enough. “Sounds bad.”

Castiel didn’t look up. “The Mark… corrupted Dean. Sam and I… we couldn’t stop him, and after he had killed Sam, he…” Cas paused, directing his gaze towards the ceiling. “He broke. He began by hunting down monsters, then it was serial killers, murderers. People who were ‘douchebags and assholes’.” It sounded like he was quoting. “Eventually… eventually he went after everyone who had the potential for evil. He just wouldn’t stop killing, couldn’t stop killing, all the way convinced he was doing the right thing. It was insanity, I suppose. I stood in his path many times but I couldn’t…” Cas rose, walking over to the kitchen isle, putting his back to Dean and clutching the countertop, his knuckles white. His voice had gone soft, almost inaudible. “I wanted to help him at first, still, but there was… he wouldn’t listen, and I couldn’t hurt him more. So I tried to find a solution, a way to remove the Mark, but the Mark is not meant to be removed. Dean became powerful, a force of destruction.” Cas’s shoulders rounded, making him appear smaller. “He became a Knight of Hell. My grace was still depleted at the time, there was only so much I could do, and when the angels left…”

Dean tensed up, alarmed. He had heard that phrase before, too often. Had heard that dejected tone, too, from his Cas – but his Cas was going down with a bang, kicking and screaming at the world, while this Cas had appeared happy, serene. Perhaps he should have trusted his instincts, should have hightailed it out of here when he had the chance. But Cas didn’t appear to pose a threat, not to him. Dean closed his hand around the handle of his gun, but remained seated.

“Most days,” Cas continued, whispering, “I can’t bear remembering. Dean brought me to the brink of death many times. He never… he never dealt the final blow. I don’t know if he was unable to, as I was, or if he just enjoyed… toying with me. I was the last being who could stand in his path, the demons happily rallying behind him. He was not the new king they had expected, and he despised them, killing them whenever they came into his path, but the carnage left in his wake was a feast for them. Lucifer’s work paled in comparison.”

“Hey!” Dean protested. _Lucifer_ was pretty much the biggest fucking problem of his entire _life_ , and to hear Cas, of all people, dismiss him as an inferior bungler…

“My apologies,” Cas said, but it didn’t sound like he meant it. “I speak merely the truth, Dean.”

“How come you’re not out there fighting him then? So what if you can’t stop him? The least you could do is distract him – me, whatever!”

Even from behind, Dean saw Cas’s jaw clenching, his posture stiffen. Anger. “I did. For many years I would fling myself in his way, when I could barely stand, or walk, or fight, just to give humanity a moment’s reprieve. Whenever I was recovered enough to find him, I went to him. I used all my powers, all my knowledge, _Dean_.” It sounded as if saying the name physically hurt. “I drew my sword on him. On _Dean_. But I couldn’t-”

“Why’d you stop?”

“Because it’s over.” Cas turned around again, finally. His face was smooth, but unfathomable pain burned in his eyes. “This is not the Earth you remember, Dean. We are many years in your future – I have lost count, but it is hundreds, if not thousands.”

Dean dragged in a sharp breath, letting it out as a whistle. “So out there…?”

“If you were to step outside this garden, you would see the true destruction that came about in Dean’s wake. None of it was his doing, exactly, but with demons running rampage on Earth… The human governments didn’t know how to handle it, or perhaps they were all infiltrated, I don’t know. I was too preoccupied with Dean to stop it – to even _see_ any of it. There was an atomic war, Dean. Safe for a few oases such as this, the Earth as you knew it is gone, and has been for many years. Maybe nature has started to reclaim some of it; I have not ventured outside for a long time. What is here is sustained by my grace.”

“What about… _him_?”

Cas hung his head, and Dean didn’t know how to read the gesture – guilt, shame, grief? Maybe none of it, or all.

“When everyone was gone… when everyone was dead but me and him, he… he turned on the demons, and boarded up Hell. Then he came to find me. He is gone now, and I took this.” Cas reached down and rolled up his sleeve, revealing an elevated red Mark roughly in the shape of a seven on his forearm. It stood out starkly against Cas’s skin, looking wrong and sickening in the same way that an open break would.

Dean cringed, finding comfort in the weight of his gun, even though he knew it was useless. “How come you’re not on a killing spree?”

“My grace seems to cancel it out. If I had known that I could… that the Mark could be passed on to an angel…” Cas shook himself, meeting Dean’s gaze fully for the first time since he had started his narration. “The Mark is a necessity to preserve whatever life is left. Without it, you would not have found me here.”

“You’ll be here _forever_?” The word was a concept too huge for Dean, too huge for any human. He wonder whether, if he had asked _his_ Cas, he would say that _forever_ was also impossible for angels.

This Cas merely shrugged. “Yes.”

“How have you not gone insane, dude?!”

Cas smiled, and this expression Dean could read – it was the same his Cas got when he was stoned, but still sober enough to realize the reality of their lives. It was the serenity that came after being stripped of everything else, when panic, anger, fear, love, hate, when _everything_ got you nowhere, and to keep going was all you had left.

“I don’t know that I haven’t,” Cas said, softly. “I am talking to Dean Winchester from another dimension where it is 2013.”

“No, dude, I am _real_!”

“I believe you, Dean,” Cas said, terrifyingly calm. “I can sense you do not belong here.”

Silence fell between them for a moment, interrupted only by the cat, who came out of the bedroom, rubbed against Cas’s legs once and then jumped up on the counter and out the open window.

“I’m not staying,” Dean said, finding it suddenly very important to get that out there. He couldn’t even begin to imagine eternity alone, not with what little time he had left, but he couldn’t stay. He had a Devil to kill and a Cas who needed him.

“Of course not,” this Cas replied.

“So how do I get back? Sounds like this will be more complicated than time travel.”

“It is, but I have had a long time to expand my knowledge, and I have considerably more power than the angel you met all those years ago.”

Dean huffed a bitter laugh despite himself. “Yeah, I am damn sure you have more powers than my Cas now. I’m mean, he’s as good as human.”

Cas looked vaguely intrigued, but didn’t comment. “You wish to leave immediately.”

“Sorry.”

Cas shook his head. “No. It is better this way. I need to take you there, and it might take some time for my grace to recover from the trip before I can return, but I should be able to bring you there safely.”


	9. Chapter 9

_~ Vancouver ~_

In the end, Misha just went to bed. There wasn’t much left of the day either way, and Misha really just wanted to stop thinking. He was not above sharing personal and even disturbing things with his twitter crowd – hell, he hadn’t even deleted the one he’d sent just before his would be assassin had put a knife to his throat. Still, he thought that ‘I’ve been having hallucinations #missujen’ wasn’t going to go down well with the network.

He was sufficiently exhausted to just sleep through the night, but woke up feeling numb and cold, and just stared at the ceiling for a while trying to decide whether moving was worth it. He ended up grabbing his phone blindly and opening up an offline game of Words with Friends, just to do something he didn’t associate with Jensen – only to jump out of his skin when a voice said, “What the hell?”

His response to stressful situations hadn’t improved by personal experience, and when he turned around to find two people standing in his bedroom, the scream stuck in his throat and he froze in place, still clutching his phone.

“This isn’t Camp Chitaqua. Where did you take us?”

Misha yipped when the speaker pulled a gun, pointing it at his companion. A very real looking gun.

“Dean, hold on.” The other guy simply pushed the gun down – who even did that?! – and stepped forward, into the light of the bedside lamp.

Misha held his breath. “…how?”

“You are not I.”

He was staring at Castiel. He was staring at someone who looked like him but not, who was radiating energy and power and serenity and whose gaze was so intense that Misha _felt_ it burning through his skull.

“Hey, give the guy a break. He’s freaking out.” Dean. That was Dean.

Misha really wanted to wake up, right about now.

Cas tilted his head. “You are not asleep.”

“Stay… stay out of my head.” Yes, okay, it was a clichéd response, but there was an angel standing inside his bedroom. A fictional angel. And an equally fictional human with Jensen’s face. Only Castiel didn’t look particularly threatening. Misha had played him threatening, he knew what that looked like, and this wasn’t it. This was… curiosity without fear. Sometimes Misha wished he had that luxury. “Are you real?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “This must be difficult to understand for you.”

Misha bristled at that. “Now, look, Cas-“

“How do you know who he is?” Dean said, and Misha really couldn’t have mistaken him for Jensen. This Dean looked… ragged, dangerous, his compassion worn out and his gaze unblinking. The voice, of course, was a dead giveaway at any rate.

Misha pulled his phone to his chest, wondering if he should call Jared, or if he would be better served with an ambulance since he was _clearly_ having a psychotic break, then wondered why, if that was true, he was still thinking so clearly. He ended up doing neither, just looked from Dean to Cas and back, licking his lips to give himself time to gather his thoughts. “Look, this makes zero sense, okay, but I’ve had a lunatic babbling about magic attempting to murder me, and my friends have…” He bit his lip. “I’m an actor. I play Cas in a TV show.”

“You’re _another_ fake-Cas?”

 _Huh_. Misha remembered that phrase too well, remembered it from Jensen’s lips – or who he had believed to be Jensen – during the Incident. If he _was_ losing it, he supposed this was a fitting theme. He said none of that out loud, though. “I’m Misha. I’m an actor, not fake anything.” _Wait – another?_

“Dean,” Castiel said, “put away your weapon. There is no threat here.” He walked over to the light switch, showing with unnerving familiarity with the layout of Misha’s bedroom – hell, a hallucination would be able to do anything Misha could possibly imagine. Cas flicked the switch, casting them all in brightness. The first thing Misha noticed was Cas’s wardrobe, which was… unusual. Now that Cas in the show was human, he had been wearing different things, but Misha still expected him to be in a trench coat, not a shirt and trousers like he himself would have worn them, and he certainly couldn’t understand the fluidity and assurance with which this Cas moved: at home in this body and with its expressions. A hallucination shouldn’t overturn his expectations, should it?

And Dean… well. Misha knew that he was dangerous, of course, but the aura of violence, death and despair that surrounded this one… Even at his lowest, Jensen had never played Dean like that, had never been like that.

“Misha, I apologize for intruding,” Cas said, “We have come from a different dimension. I was attempting to return Dean to his.”

“Well, your aim is shitty,” Dean said.

Cas looked at him, and for a moment, Misha was sure he saw the shadow of a fond smile. “I suppose it is. At any rate, it seems that instead of reaching my alter-ego in Dean’s reality, I found you.”

“So he is you?” Dean asked, waving his hand between Cas and Misha, and finally settling on the latter. “Dude, do you sleep fully clothed?”

Misha didn’t, but the truth was, he just hadn’t had the energy to change. The pants Jared had brought him to the hospital were loose and comfortable enough, and his shirt might be wrinkled, but he couldn’t care less.

“Never mind – where’s fake-me, then?”

Misha felt as though someone had pulled the ground from under his feet and he was suddenly staring into an abyss. His throat clicked, resisting the answer, a black hole inside his chest threatening to swallow him whole. “Jen… Jensen is… he…” He choked, a sob forcing its way up his throat. His eyes were burning, but there were no tears.

“Shit,” said Dean, and moved closer to Cas. If he could have summoned the strength, Misha would have laughed at the instinctive response. Jensen had always gravitated towards Misha, but it had always also been a two-way street. It was no secret that Dean and Cas – their roles – also belonged together, but that they hadn’t yet gone through with it since Misha and Jensen had got together. They were struggling to keep a show above water, after all, and they couldn’t afford to be controversial, even if Misha had never understood what the big deal was. Cas wasn’t even male, after all, not really. There had even been talk originally about keeping their own relationships under wraps, but they were having none of it. Jensen wasn’t really a fan of social media, but he wanted to support Misha and, god knew, Misha had needed his support in the early days _especially_ in public, and afterwards Misha had just wanted everyone to know how much Jensen meant to him.

Dean flopped down on the foot of the bed, wrenching Misha from his thoughts. They were really, really persistent for hallucinations. “I’m dead, aren’t I,” he said, flatly, and Misha wanted to curl up and punch something at the same time.

He tried to swallow past the knot in his throat. “I didn’t think you were.”

“This is not right,” Cas put in, and Misha looked up at him, finding the angel frowning.

“What?”

“Something isn’t right with this dimension. It has been tampered with.”

Dean was looking at Cas, now, too. “And you can tell because…?”

“Because his friend Balthazar has done it before,” Misha said, locking his gaze with Cas’s. “Right? When he zapped Sam and Dean into the Renaissance so they could find the angelic weapons he had hidden?”

Dean blinked. “What?”

Cas inclined his head slightly in acquiescence, not averting his gaze. “Something similar happened, yes. I would presume there are slight variations between your scripts and my reality, but that _is_ how I know. This dimension… it’s been invaded before, but this new change is… it is enormous, and… abhorrent.”

Dean pointed his finger at Misha, who recoiled from it instinctively even though the gesture wasn’t meant to be threatening. “Wait, you said you didn’t think fake-me was dead.”

“His name is Jensen,” Misha said, not without force. If he was going insane, he could at least set things right with these hallucinations. “And no. I’ve had a rough time of late, and I… I was in the hospital and when I woke up Jared – that’s Sam – told me that Jen had died five months ago. I don’t remember any of it, but there is plenty of proof.”

“But you do remember him being with you,” Cas stated, far too assuredly.

Dean heaved a sigh. “Cas, you really have issues with respecting people’s privacy.”

“Apologies,” Cas said dryly. “I have had to adapt to my circumstances.”

Misha plucked at his blanket, fiddling with his phone with his other hand. “Yes, I remember him being there after the accident. But then again, I am talking to fictional characters in my bedroom, so my sanity isn’t really something you should rely on.”

“Okay, listen… Misha, or whatever your name is: I’m not a hallucination,” Dean said.

Misha barely had the energy for a shrug. “Let’s run with your story for now. How did Dean end up with you then, Cas? You said you were returning him.”

“I was. I don’t know how he arrived at my dimension, but he does not belong there anymore than we both belong to this one.”

“Where’s your Dean then?” Misha asked.

Castiel’s face fell, and of all the things Misha had expected to see, it wasn’t the look he had seen on his own face reflected in the mirror that morning staring back at him through Cas’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” was all Misha could say.

Dean let out a low whistle, not sounding particularly surprised. “Damn. I mean, I knew hunters don’t live a long life and all, and certainly not me, but I always thought that in some universe someone was doing better than me. And now I’ve seen two and I’m dead in both?”

“This isn’t about you,” Misha said, finally putting down his phone. “Cas – I won’t ask how it happened, but I’m sorry.”

Cas squared his shoulders. “Thank you, but it was a long time ago now.”

“Well, you’re not keeping me as a replacement. That’s just creepy.”

Misha decided to ignore Dean for now, and inched forward slightly, moving towards Cas. “Do you think _his_ Cas will know what happened?”

“Unlikely. When dimensions are violated, they have a tendency to rearrange themselves to resolve the… well, I suppose you could call it an injury. The same thing happens in dreams, where humans ignore any inconsistency or irrational behavior the dream produces, never realizing that it is out of place. Most likely, the universe will have formed some explanation as to Dean’s absence and established it as fact. Unless Dean is returned and explains his experience, any oddity is likely to be passed over as faultiness of memory.”

Misha nodded, remembering how easy they had found it to explain away Jen and Jared’s behavior during the Incident. How they’d thought they were drunk, or hungover. How odd it was that were talking again, but how everyone had just been relieved they’d buried their quarrels. How Gen swore up and down that it had been Jared’s body walking around those days, even when J2 later swore that none of it had been them – but it was only when they were back that things became inexplicably weird. Before, everything had seemed odd – but not inexplicable.

“Are you saying that Cas – my Cas – likely has been fed some shit by the fucking universe about why I’m no longer there?” Dean threw in.

“If you haven’t been replaced by another version of you, yes.”

Dean was back on his feet in an instant. “You have to get me back to him _now_.”

“I attempted to, Dean. I don’t know why we came here instead, and I am not going to risk another attempt until we are sure – these journeys are very draining, and very dangerous.”

“You don’t get it. Cas – my Cas – he crawled into a pill bottle after your dicks of siblings left and he became human, okay? Him and me, we are all we have left. We’ve been keeping each other afloat. If I’m gone… I can’t lose him, too.”

“I am truly sorry, Dean.”

Misha swung his legs over the edge of the bed, staring at the slightly worn photo of him and Jen on the nightstand. “Wait… you said this dimension – my dimension – had been tampered with. Again.”

Cas slowly focused back on him. “Yes.”

“But not by you.”

“No, my intrusion is minor by comparison.”

“What if… what if Jen has ended up in another dimension, and that is why I can’t remember him dying because he hasn’t – it’s just the… universe, or whatever, attempting to repair the damage.” Okay, he was really, really grasping at straws here, but what if? What if the two of them were really there, and he wasn’t insane, and Jensen had actually gone to bed with him not two nights ago, and everything – the car accident, his tweets, Jared – all had been manipulated? Well, it certainly sounded no less insane than hallucinating your dead partner for six months.

“It is possible,” Cas said slowly, considering.

“Why would he remember, though? No offense.”

Misha shook his head at Dean. “None taken – why would I remember? You are right, something like this happened before here, but I never knew that Jensen and Jared weren’t Jensen and Jared until the real ones got back.”

“I don’t know.”


	10. Chapter 10

_~ The Bunker ~_

There was no information about the Darkness in the bunker’s library, not even a whisper of a rumor. Its final containment had happened so long ago by human standards that there was simply no documentation of it anywhere – or if there had been, it had been lost and destroyed with other apocryphal bible texts. Their only hope of finding something was the heavenly archives, but Castiel hesitated to make contact with his siblings. He had chosen Earth and humanity many times over, and the last contact he had had with his siblings had been the theft and subsequent escape of Metatron. Castiel was sure they would be less inclined to listen to him, even if he no longer carried foreign grace. He wondered if he could ever mend things with Heaven, and asked himself whether he really wanted to. He had first rebelled such a long time ago; perhaps his place _was_ elsewhere now.

If they could find Metatron, the scribe might have some information on the Darkness, but he wasn’t likely to be very forthcoming, and frankly Cas wasn’t sure how much time there was left.

“Cas, hey. Take a break, man.”

Castiel looked up from the book he was futilely studying while his mind wandered, and found Dean, holding two cups of coffee, and looking… well, not repentant, but at least neutral.

“I know you say it all tastes like molecules anyways, but you’ve had coffee before so…” He held out one of the cups to Cas, who took it carefully, summoning up a smile. It should have come easy, but right now even looking at Dean was a struggle, his core roiling with bitter disappointment Dean did not deserve.

“Thank you, Dean. I find that I have developed a taste for coffee, even as an angel.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it.” Dean settled down against the desk, nursing his own cup. “Anything?”

“Unfortunately not.”

“Man, this is weird. Part of me still wants to punch you in the face and throw you out of the bunker, even though I know it’s all rubbish. Sorry ‘bout earlier, by the way.”

Cas folded his hand around the cup, feeling the warmth. “You had only just woken, your confusion was understandable. You shouldn’t dwell on these thoughts, Dean, or they will gain strength.”

“It’s damned hard, though.”

“Oh, hey! You’re talking,” interrupted a voice with honest excitement.

Dean sighed, pushing away from the table and finding a chair on the opposite side. “Hey, Sam.”

“Do you still think it’s contained to you and Dean, Cas?” Sam asked from the door, cradling a dusty paper box.

Cas just nodded. “Most likely we would have heard something if it weren’t.”  

Sam pushed himself away from the doorframe and walked up to the table Cas had been working at for the last few hours, dumping the box between them. “Found this in a dusty corner down in the cellar – the lid had the label _Myths and Legends_ , but I figured with what we are dealing with, this might not be the worst option.”

Dean pulled a file out by its corner. “Dude, Bigfoot? Bigfoot is totally real, man!”

Sam rolled his eyes indulgently. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Dean. How are you guys doing?”

“I made us coffee. Y’know, doing friendship-y things,” Dean toasted Sam with his own cup.

“Does it help?”

Cas pulled out one of the dusty files. “Sam, there is no remedy. The symptoms will get worse as time progresses, but, by focusing on the positive, we might be able to ward it off for longer.” He frowned at the file. “‘Yeti’?”

“Totally real, too!” Dean exclaimed.

Sam just shrugged. “There’s bound to be some useless material, but we might find something.”

They delved into the box together, finding a lot of material on myths the Men of Letters had debunked over the years – some wrongly so, such as fairies, but the photos they’d been looking at really weren’t the real deal.

“I microwaved a fairy once,” Dean said, startling a chuckle out of Cas, even as he was scanning his own file – neither of them seeing the relief in Sam’s eyes.

The files were interesting, certainly, but also very unhelpful. Castiel knew better than to let his frustration mount. He might have recovered his grace, but whatever control Heaven had once executed over his emotions had been shaken loose a long time ago, and he couldn’t afford to get angry at human limitations – not now. If only there were a way to make the Darkness visible; to see how far it had spread, and how well it was contained within them. He thought that he might be able to perceive it, in some way similar to sight, if it accumulated, or grew in strength – the Winchesters had told him off the dark storm they had faced when the Darkness had first been set free, but since then, it had spread out, adapted to its surroundings and _hidden_. Cas could feel its force – the ancient pressure that was building and building, invisible, shifting and clawing at his thoughts, his memories and emotions, disturbingly like the Leviathan…

“Cas? Hey, are you okay?”

Cas jolted as a hand touched his arm, and found himself staring at Sam, leaning across the corner of the table towards him. Dean was squinting at him from across the table, and the distance felt almost symbolic.

Dean’s squint deepened into a frown. “Dude, you’re sweating.”

Now that he concentrated, Cas could feel it: beads of liquid forming on his forehead and between his brows. “Oh.” He wiped at them with his hand, wondering if he had ever sweated while he was an angel before.

“Are you alright?” Sam repeated, his hand still resting loosely on Cas’s arm.

“I can feel the Chaos.” Cas blinked at the file he had been reading, finding that he couldn’t concentrate on it. The pressure was too much, and part of him wanted to get as far away from Dean’s brightly gleaming soul as he could. The other part wanted to be close, to touch, to never let go. “I feel… very ill.”

Dean scoffed, and Sam shot him a dark glare, his hand rubbing over Cas’s arm. “Do you want to lie down, or something?”

“He’s an _angel_ , Sam! He doesn’t want you to baby him.”

Despite himself, Cas locked his gaze with Dean’s, feeling it like a physical punch, a tearing force against his grace. An affronted “I speak for myself” was out of his mouth before he could stop it, and he felt sick when any shadow of humor in Dean’s eyes shuddered and died.

Dean pushed himself to his feet, shoving the chair back harshly. “Oh, of course, because this isn’t about us being humans, right, this is about me being me!”

Cas didn’t rise to the challenge. “I didn’t mean to say it, but you really are being infuriating.”

“Why do you care, then? Let the Darkness tear us apart! You’re going to abandon us at the eleventh hour anyway!”

“Stop! STOP IT!” Sam’s voice tore through the library like a thunderclap.

Dean blinked, dredging up a smile that could only be fake and collapsed back into his chair. “Sorry. But face it, we’re getting nowhere here and, if this continues, we’ll just be at each other’s throat more. It’s laughable, really.”

“Nothing about this is _funny_ , Dean!” Sam said, still towering over both of them, his own file discarded.

“I know, Sammy, jeez. I can’t help it, okay? I just look at him and I get _angry_ , and I have a billion reasons why, but I also know they are all rubbish!”

Cas stared at his hands as the Winchesters spoke, trying to get a hold on the roiling feeling in his gut, to focus on anything but the hum of Dean’s soul.

“Well, keep it together,” Sam said, his voice echoing with quiet desperation. “You too, Cas. I’m going to go and look through the artefacts; maybe something there can help us.” Sam tapped the desk in front of Cas, making him jump. “Cas, hey, you okay?”

“I need air.” Castiel rose and walked out, not glancing back.

****

Sam decided against going after Cas – better to give the angel some space. He knew the situation wasn’t going to get any better, but at least Dean and Castiel now both knew what was going on, and were fighting it. Sam couldn’t say with confidence if either of them was more successful than the other, but at least they were trying.

He had left Dean to do some more reading, and had gone down to the archives to browse the list of artefacts. The Men of Letters had collected enough cursed objects to fill a vault – the challenge was figuring out which objects might turn out to be of some use, and which were better left sealed if they could not be destroyed. If this had been a modern archive, there would have been a search engine, but Sam hadn’t had time to digitize the system, so all he had to go on was endless stacks of index cards, seemingly in no particular order. Eventually he figured out that they were sorted by size of the artefact, but that was little help. So, he fetched himself a coffee and started at the smallest object.

After a few hours, Cas quietly joined him, settling down on the floor at the other side of the stack of boxes. “I spoke to Claire,” he said.

Sam discarded the most recent index card – a bottle that turned its contents bloodlike. Apparently, it couldn’t manage real blood, and the Men of Letters and Sam were equally puzzled as to what its purpose was in the first place. Cas met his glance only for a moment, eyes roaming over the boxes.

“Did it help?” Sam asked.

Cas inhaled, a simple sound seeming too loud in the quiet of the room. “Yes, I think so. She is travelling out to join us.”

“Do we want to drag her into this?”

Cas tilted his head. “Sam, if we find no way to contain the Darkness, the whole world will be affected. As much as I want Claire to be safe, I couldn’t decline her offer of help. My relationship with her is not influenced by Chaos, nor is Dean’s. She might be able to mediate while we all concentrate on finding a solution.”

“Right.” Sam thought he had done his best to do the mediating himself, but if Cas felt better with Claire here, maybe he had more strength to fight against the Chaos. “If you wanna give me a hand, start at the other end.”

Cas nodded and moved over to the boxes that indexed the largest objects.

They worked in silence for barely an hour before Cas exclaimed in surprise. Sam had never seen him so astonished, his eyes fixed on an index card, his body practically vibrating. “Sam. Where is this object?”

Sam clambered to his feet and peered over Cas’s shoulder. There was a picture attached to the card, a full-length reflective surface in a fairly nondescript, if inscribed, frame. It looked familiar somehow. “A mirror?”

“It is not a mirror. The inscription is in an old Enochian dialect – it is a language unknown to men. Sam, this is one of the Weapons of Heaven.”

“What? I thought Balthazar returned them all to you.”

Cas shook his head. “Over the centuries, some of the Weapons have become lost. Some were used in battle and never restored, some were given to humans deserving of them and never collected once the humans passed. Not all of these objects are weapons in the strictest sense, Sam. Like the tablets, they are holy objects, providing the bearer with select powers.”

“So what does the mirror do?”

“It allows communication across dimensions.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “ _Dimensions_?”

Cas just nodded, unfazed. “Yes. Dimensions, multiverses. If we can find the… mirror, it should be possible to ascertain how much damage the Chaos has caused.”

When they got down to the storage and finally located the grate that should have contained the dimensional mirror, they found themselves standing in front of an empty box. The dust that had settled over everything around it over the years had been disturbed, and from the looks of it, several more grates had been shifted. And, well, it was their own fault. There were new boxes in the storage unit, holding some of the Winchesters’ backup equipment. Back in the days they spent all their time on the road, they would have gotten rid of all non-functional equipment, but now they had the bunker, they had decided they might as well keep whatever could be fixed, and if there was a low in hunting they would have something useful to do. Not that they had ever had time to take a breather, and the hits just kept on coming.

“Great,” Sam said, flatly.

Cas seemed equally troubled. “This isn’t a good thing, Sam. Even if we had no need of the mirror, Heaven’s Weapons should not be unsupervised. Their power might be varied, but it is always considerable.”

“Hang on.” Sam pulled the index card out of Cas’s hand, staring hard at the picture. “Do you reckon it works as a mirror? As in, garden variety, possibly mistaken for a simple mirror?”

“Unless activated, it might appear as a simple reflective surface, yes,” Cas said. “Why?”

“Follow me!”


	11. Chapter 11

_~ Camp Chitaqua ~_

The pain was sharp and immediate, blood trailing down his hand where he had split his knuckles. The mirror had cracked from the middle but still clung to the wall, shards of glass fracturing Cas’s reflection – but his wasn’t the only image in the glass. Dean was still there.

“Fuck.” Cas passed his bruised hand through his hair, unable to tear his gaze away. He was screwed. He was so screwed. In all his experimentations, he had never, _never_ allowed himself to lose track of what was reality. When he was high, he was high, and that was that. He didn’t see things when he wasn’t, didn’t hallucinate unless he wanted to.

“Cas?” It sounded soft now, questioning, echoing eerily.

Cas forced down the urge to plug his ears, and instead pressed his eyes closed. A trail of blood was slowly making its warm way down his fingers. He should see to it, or have someone see to it, but he couldn’t face… he couldn’t face Dean, knowing he was dead. “Go away.”

He waited, and when there was nothing, turned his back with his eyes closed, and walked out of the room.

On autopilot, Cas settled down on the bed, removed a stray glass shard from his hand, poured vodka over the wound and wrapped it up in a cloth. He would need to get Chuck to do it properly later, but for now, it would do. He didn’t think he’d broken anything. There hadn’t really been a lot of force behind the punch, but _fuck_.

He went for more pills, something to stop him caring, and headed out. The meeting could wait. Right now, Cas needed a more powerful distraction.

The demon sneered at him as he stepped into the hut. Cas knew they could still tell – though he had no idea how – what he had been. Maybe he simply had no soul to corrupt or sell, nothing a demon would be interested in. Maybe they could see the paralyzed shadows of his wings as much as he could feel them. He didn’t really care.

He pulled the door close and slid the bolt home, surveying the room. He had never accompanied Dean when he… worked. He had hated it. Had hated even thinking about it, though sometimes he would linger outside, listening and cringing at every sound, but unable to walk away.

This, however, was no longer Dean’s domain. All the devices were gone, and the Devil’s Trap wasn’t the crude human one, but a more powerful one of angelic making. Cas knew that his blood didn’t register as human for spells, so perhaps he had found that it was still angelic enough to do this. His angel blade sat on the otherwise empty shelf. Cas had given it to Dean to use at some point – afraid that he was losing the ability to manifest it, but Dean had preferred other torture methods. But Dean was no longer here.

Cas picked the blade up, swirling it in his hand. He couldn’t really feel his injured knuckles anymore.

The demon hissed at him. He was wearing a male vessel, little more than a kid, really – not that it mattered. The vessel was most likely already dead, and if he wasn’t, Cas would be doing him a favor. Even one demon less walking the Earth was a blessing in the days of the Apocalypse. The demon’s eyes remained perpetually black.

“Angel,” he purred menacingly, bucking up against his restraints. Not that he could move much, hanging spread-eagled from a contraption not unlike the one that had once held Alastair for Dean, powerful sigil work edged into the wood.

Apparently, for all Cas couldn’t remember the last month, he hadn’t let time go to waste. Perhaps his grief-management had been _this_ , like it had been Dean’s. Perhaps he had turned into Dean, now that he was no longer here. As Cas he was useless anyway.

Cas didn’t speak, just trailed the tip of the sword over the demon’s palm, watching it jerk and the blood welling up against its skin. It had always surprised him that there was nothing demonic in the way demon vessels bled – not like when an angel was injured and their grace spilled forth.

“That all you got?” The thing dared to taunt.

Cas stepped back outside the trap, laying down the blade. “No,” he said, and began chanting.

He took it all. First the demon’s eyesight, then its hearing, so it would not understand what Cas was doing. He chanted spell after spell, invocation after invocation, surprised that even half of them still worked with the Heavenly Host gone, but he didn’t stop to reflect on it. He remembered what the Host had done to him when he had first considered rebelling and he turned it all on the demon. He stripped it of all its superhuman senses, destroyed the connections between it and its vessel, leaving it trapped in a body it couldn’t command, only to restore it again when he paused the invocation just before the deadly blow and caused it pain.

The demon was screaming and screaming but Cas barely heard it, barely heard the fists banging on the hut’s door either. He wasn’t going to open it anyway.

Without being prompted, the demon eventually started spilling forth information. Locations, contacts, ranks, switching between English and its original language: some Nordic dialect. Not that it mattered to Cas – of all his angelic powers, he had retained most of his memory and his language skills. When Cas was certain he had heard all the demon knew, he plunged the blade into its heart and ended it.

He wiped the blade clean on the demon’s shirt before stepping. He returned the blade to its shelf. He felt dirty, even if there was no blood on him, and wished he could have showered, but the next best thing available in the Camp was a dip in the river, which was freezing even in the height of summer, or stepping under a water hose that only had rainwater. It had been such a long time since he or Dean had had a hot shower, and of course it wasn’t going to happen again any time soon. Dean was gone and the world was ending.

Fists hammered against the door again – Chuck was screaming his name, already hoarse. Cas looked over the corpse dispassionately one more time, thinking about the information he had gathered, and which part of it he should share with the residents of the Camp. Should he tell them that Australia was gone? That Seattle had been bombed by the ‘government’? None of that information would change anything for them. They still had to find the Colt to have even a shadow of a chance against the Devil. Cas didn’t know if he could face up against his brother without Dean, didn’t know if he could do anything without Dean, but he hardly had a choice, did he? He owed Dean to try, and it would be the last thing he did – one way or the other. Cas had no illusions of ever seeing Dean again. There was no such thing as an afterlife for fallen angels.

Cas left the blade where it was with a last longing look and unbolted the door for Chuck, who was still screaming up a storm outside. The ex-prophet almost fell inside when the door opened.

“Cas!”

Cas felt the urge to smile, so he did, even though there was no emotion behind it. It was just easier than crying. “I have news about the Colt.”

Chuck stared at the corpse, then at Cas’s expression, his eyes brimming with worry and pity Cas didn’t want, didn’t deserve.

“Are they still waiting? If not, call them back. We have no time to lose.”

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

_~ Terris Concordae ~_

Jensen wasn’t left alone for very long. He had only just begun to make sense of Misha’s collection of books – a testimony to the man’s varied interests, even in this universe, although this Misha owned more plays than his Misha had scripts. Jensen found his eyes straying towards the leather notebook, but he restrained himself. He had no interest in invading Misha’s privacy, even if this wasn’t the man he had got to know so well. Not for the first time, Jensen wondered what _his_ Misha was doing now. Was he filing a missing person’s report? Had he noticed Jensen was even gone yet? Jensen had no idea how long he had slept, or if he even had slept, or whether this was some weird side effect of dimensional travel – and yeah, his Misha would be so _interested_ in that. Misha found everything interesting, but this was a whole new world to explore, a whole new society. Jensen had no idea whether it was better than the one they were living in, but there was magic and elves and giants, and, hell, if the situation were any different, Jensen would find this fascinating. He would have preferred to have Misha here with him, but somehow he doubted that meeting his alter ego would make Misha very happy – he felt too much for Cas, a _fictional character_ , as it was, and there was just no way they could fix this. They couldn’t give this Misha his partner back, and if Misha hated anything, it was not being able to help.

He heard Misha and Jared approach before he saw them, Misha giving a yelp, and: “Let me _go_ , Jared!”

“Not until you’ve slept of whatever the fuck you took.” Jared still sounded like Jared, and yeah, now Jensen was really feeling homesick.

“Ugh, I’m not that high!”

“I’m calling the understudy. Misha, you can’t perform in this state! It’s far too dangerous.” The doorknob turned, and Jensen pulled himself up to his full height.

Jared, looking no different than Jensen was used to, but truly gigantic next to Misha, as always, pushed open the door, but his eyes were on Misha. He held the elf by the elbow, manhandling him into the room, storm clouds on his brow. Jensen didn’t know Jared could even look this _angry_.

“Hey, Jare,” Jensen said.

Jared froze, and Misha took the opportunity to shake off his hand and step into his room. “ _Now_ do you believe me?”

Jensen glanced over to the elf, noting the underlying current of relief in his posture, as he moved some books to make standing space, his expression softening from irritation to understanding. His tone was soft, almost gentle when he addressed Jared again, “Close the door, gigantor, before someone sees us.”

Jared stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him, instantly making the room smaller. His eyes raked over Jensen, all youthful wonder, and his mouth hung open. Then he blinked, scowling. “Misha, if this is supposed to be a prank, this is very bad taste.”

Misha threw his arms up, exasperated. “As if I would joke with _this_! Besides, you know I’m not allowed to take the orbs off stage. My own magic wouldn’t be enough for an illusion like this.”

“As if rules have ever stopped you,” Jared burst out, ignoring Jensen and narrowing his eyes at Misha. Jensen _knew_ him, knew his mannerisms as well as Misha’s, and he could see that Jared was masking a well of hurt under his anger.

Misha’s eyes narrowed in true fury. “I did not create an illusion of my _dead husband_ to mess with you.” Misha’s voice was deceptively level, like it only got when he was really, really pissed off. Jensen had that tone directed at him only once or twice, but he instinctively shrank away anyway, his mind barely having space to process ‘husband’. Him and Misha were long-term partners to be sure, but marriage had never really been on the table. They had talked about it, but Misha hadn’t wanted to do it unless everyone could, and what they had had always seemed too fragile, so tender that neither of them had wanted to mess with it. It was stupid, perhaps, since Misha was about the only thing in his life Jensen was sure about, but it wasn’t just his decision, and they were both happy with what they were.

Jared seemed to shrink under Misha’s glare, then bobbed his head, his bangs falling into his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry, Misha, I wasn’t thinking.”

“You never do,” Misha said, not without fondness, but sounding tired. “Jen, you wanna explain?”

“Uh, yes, of course. Jared, you might want to sit down for this, brother.”

They settled down in a triangle on Misha’s nest, surrounded by books. Jared’s eyes didn’t leave Jensen’s face, and jeez, he looked so _young_. Jensen’s heart went out to him as his brother in anything but blood, the affection immediate and unthinking, coming even easier than it had with elf-Misha. Jared, _this_ Jared, had no exterior features to remind Jensen that he wasn’t the guy he stepped onto set with for almost all of his workdays, the one he hung out with during the holidays when him and Misha weren’t taking some couple-time. This Jared was like Sam after Dean had gone to hell. Alone. Lost. Desperate and clinging to what little there was left, anger and fear and loneliness all whirling around just under the surface. Jensen could see it clear as day – he knew how to read Jared, after all. Misha might have been the older man, but somehow Jensen got the feeling that it was Jared who was trying to be the strong one, but the pain of his grief was raw and all too visible. He didn’t know if Misha saw it. Jared was Misha’s friend, too, back home and clearly here, and Misha would be helping if he could – but Jensen wasn’t sure this Misha could.

Jensen gave Jared the cliff notes version of what had happened, as far as they could figure it out, and when he was done, he couldn’t help it. “Sorry for your loss,” he said, and felt Misha tense at his side and saw tears well up in Jared’s eyes.

“Fuck,” Jared rasped, and leaned over to fold Jensen into a hug that was sure to crack his rips.

“Jare, I can’t breathe!”

“Sorry.” Jared pulled back. “Well, this is a mess.” He waved his large hand between Jensen and Misha. “Have you…?”

“Kissed? Yeah, but only because I thought I was hallucinating, and he thought I was _his_ ,” Misha replied, sounding too carefree. “Any idea how to get him back?”

Jared ran a hand through his hair. “Uh… Jensen would have known.”

“That Jensen isn’t _here,_ ” Misha said, with too much emphasis, “I deal in illusions, Jared, I have no idea how to do _this_.”

“We could ask around the guild, but I’m guessing we don’t want any more people in on this.”

“I’d rather not freak out anyone else,” Jensen put in.

“Right. Do you have any idea how you came to end up here? Like, did some magic go wrong on set or something?”

Jensen blinked, the ease with which Jared assumed that there was magic in his universe throwing him momentarily. “Uh, no. There’s no magic there that I know of.”

Jared whistled. “No magic? Wow.”

“Yes, fascinating,” Misha said with sarcasm. “I don’t think this is the time to geek out, Jared.”

Jared and Jensen both looked over at the elf, both equally surprised at Misha’s disinterest. It was all wrong – Misha was supposed to find this _fascinating_ , and the fact that he didn’t made Jensen’s skin crawl.

Misha’s eyes darted between them, not really fixing on either of them. “What?!”

“Nothing. Sorry, Misha,” Jared said softly, then cleared his throat. “Uh, it’s been a while since I’ve dealt with that level of magic in everyday life. Maybe, if you have something that belongs to your universe – an object that symbolizes a connection, maybe? I might be able to establish communication, if nothing else.”

Being able to talk to his Misha sounded fantastic to Jensen right now, even though what he really wanted to do was wrap the man in a hug and never let go, _ever_. He pulled out his phone, which was flashing ‘No signal’ above the snapshot of a grinning Misha that was his lockscreen. “Will this work?”

“What’s that?” Jared asked, immediately.

Misha lifted the device from Jensen’s hand, staring at the photo. His expression was unreadable.

“Uh, it’s my phone? Don’t you have phones?”

“What does it do?” Misha whispered, running his fingers over the touchscreen and blinking when it flashed red and read ‘wrong combination’.

Jensen took it back before Misha could lock him out with too many wrong tries. “It’s a communication device. You can call people with it, wherever they are.”

“Oh,” Misha breathed, looking at the phone with a strange longing.

“We just send magic messages,” Jared said, “everyone can do it, it’s like magic fire.”

Jensen unlocked the phone, smiling involuntarily at the background – a selfie Misha had snapped while they were kissing.

This Misha, the elf, had been looking over his shoulder, and now flinched back as if stung. “Excuse me.” He pulled himself to his feet and walked out, the door falling shut hard behind him.

Jensen felt a pang of guilt. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

Jared patted his knee. “It’s okay. It hit Misha hard, that’s all. You being here… dude, it’s _strange_.”

“Yeah, I know that. Look, do you think this will work?” He really should have tried his phone before, but he had been so distracted with _Misha_ that the thought didn’t even occur to him. But obviously there were no cell towers here, and it wasn’t like cross-universe communication was even possible, was it?

“Can you… call him now?”

“There’s no signal. It’s technology, I need a signal for it to work.”

“I see.” Jared took the phone, cupping it between his hands, and then gave it back. “Try it anyway?”

Jensen hit speed dial for Misha’s mobile, not expecting it to do anything – but before he could even be told that the signal wasn’t going through, Jared asked for the phone back, folding it up in his large palms again and, this time, there was an odd flicker in his eyes, a gleam of light between his hands. After a second, Jared held out the phone and, to Jensen’s absolute astonishment, there was an open phone line. He pressed the device against his ear and chocked out: “Mish?”

 


	13. Chapter 13

_~ The Bunker ~_

Castiel recognized where Sam was leading him as soon as they rounded into the corridor at a brisk pace. “Dean’s room?”

“Yeah. I know I’ve seen that mirror before, and I think Dean put it up in his wardrobe because the original one was broken – hell, we didn’t know what it was, Cas! What if it was accidentally activated?”

Cas shook his head, not breaking his stride. “I don’t know if it has to be activated, or if it just _is_ , Sam. I’m glad it has had no ill effect so far, but if Dean has been using it... Even if it is of no use to our purpose, it has to be removed and, ideally, returned to Heaven.” If he did as much, it might be a starting point, a way of redeeming himself in the eyes of the Host. If he was losing his friends, his family down on Earth – but no, he couldn’t let that happen.

To their astonishment, Dean met them at the door to his room, his eyes wide and his short hair standing up in unruly spikes. His gaze locked onto Cas immediately, his hands waving. “Cas! I saw you – I mean, I saw other-you – the one from the fucked up future Zachariah send me to? I thought that future was _gone_! You… I was… shit, what is happening to us?”

“Dean, what were you doing?” Sam cut in, sharply.

Dean inhaled, breaking his rambling. “Nothing. Just… the mirror, and there he was. He swung at me, Cas!”

Sam squeezed past his brother, and gave an exclamation.

Cas closed his eyes briefly. “Dean, we believe your ‘mirror’ is a dimensional communication device created by the Heavenly Host.”

“That… sounds bad.” Dean turned back towards the room and Sam. The mirror was propped up against the wardrobe.

Sam was standing right in front of it, frowning at his reflection. Everything looked normal _now_. “Has it ever done anything strange before?”

Dean shook his head, feeling Cas by his side even though they weren’t touching. He found surprising comfort in the angel’s presence, even though he knew it couldn’t be trusted – or maybe that was the Darkness talking. They were so messed up. “No, it’s just been a mirror before, as far as I know. I mean, it’s not like I use it much, I was just… talking to myself.” He looked at Cas, self-conscious.

The angel tilted his head, his eyes large and understanding. He had felt it, and still ignored it. Dean forced down the anger and bile. “I mean he just… appeared. It was like he was looking into the mirror from the other side. Sam, it was _messed up_. He looked like shit. I mean, he looked bad when I was there, but this time he looked like absolute _shit_.”

“Do you know how it works, Cas?” Sam asked, making room for the angel in front of the mirror.

Cas stepped inside, his eyes travelling over the inscription. “I see…” It wasn’t designed as a weapon or observation device. It was a means of communication between two separated parties, and had been gifted to a human some long time ago. Castiel had never heard of the story, but then many proceedings of Heaven had been unknown to him. For most of his existence he had only been a soldier after all, and even his time as a commander had been short-lived by comparison. “It is designed to communicate with two parties that are separated. I don’t understand why it would activate on its own, even with Dean praying.”

Sam shot a startled look at his brother, who shrank under the gaze.

“It requires a mutual desire to communicate,” Cas continued.

“Well, that Cas didn’t look happy to see me,” Dean said. He had never _seen_ Cas this strung out, not even when he was human, not even when he was a drugged-up hippie, but he had recognized the background, the rough log cabin structure. Damn, he had watched that Cas _die_ , and his Dean too. “How does this work, Cas? That future – we stopped that. It never happened.”

Cas shook his head. “It happened. There are infinite multiverses, Dean. Every possible variation is out there.”

“So there is a version out there where you are a woman and you and I married,” Dean quipped, but the joke left a bitter taste behind. It wasn’t like Dean could _have_ that, not with a flighty angel of the lord, not with their life. The hunter community didn’t care about sexual orientation any more than Heaven did, but hunting couples rarely worked. Hell, even a permanent partner was a liability, sometimes, and certainly him and Sam were living and talking proof of that. Him and Cas – unthinkable. He couldn’t even trust the guy to stay.

“Yes,” Cas said simply, glancing back at him, his expression carefully closed off. “As much as there will be universes where neither of us exist. As an angel, we have a degree of perception for the multiverse that goes beyond that of humans, but even we are limited to one universe. I only know of two beings still living who transcend it.”

“God and Death?” Sam guessed. “So Death is still out there?”

“Yes, and yes. Death cannot cease to exist. Perhaps what you did ended this particular form of him, but the power of Death will never be gone – at least, that is what I was taught to believe.”

“Well, we still can’t exactly ask them, can we?” Dean sneered, feeling horrible. He shouldn’t have killed Death – just the guy had been there when he swung the scythe, and hell, he really hoped he Cas was right and he hadn’t actually _killed_ Death, because that was a whole other can of worms they really couldn’t deal with right now. He was probably still out there somewhere, eating nachos. But then he remembered how they had first wanted to kill Death as the last horseman, and how Dean had tried to use his own weapon against him – and he really felt sick. “We messed up, Sam. We messed up so badly.”

Sam nodded, his gaze travelling to Cas. “Is there anything we can do with this? Because if not, we’ve got nothing, and we need to look into other options.”

“I would suggest monitoring the… mirror,” Cas said, and sighed. “If nothing more appears in it, I will contact Hannah.”

Dean felt as reluctant as Cas about dragging the angels into this, but they were running out of options, and if he was having trouble being in one room with Cas _now_ , how bad would it be in a day, or two, or a week? “Yeah, okay. I’ll keep first watch, then?”


	14. Chapter 14

_~ Vancouver ~_

Dean didn’t like it. He didn’t like the thought of _his_ Cas being left alone to deal with the fucking Apocalypse while he was dicking around with his look-alikes in different dimensions. “Look, as interesting as this all is, can we get a move on?”

Misha and Cas both swiveled their gaze round to meet his, and jeez, that was freaky. Really, Dean supposed, the sight of two Castiels might have turned him on, once, but while he and Cas were by no means exclusive, he went to other people for variance. There was only one Cas, _his_ Cas, and as far as he was concerned, these two were both copycats. At least future-Cas was an angel, or something like an angel, at least, but Misha was just… he wasn’t even called Castiel, he just played one on TV.

A slight frown appeared on Cas’s face. “My apologies, Dean. It has been a long time since I felt the need for urgency.”

“Okay.” Misha pushed himself to his feet, shoving his phone into the pocket of his jeans. “Whatever is going on, I’m going to make myself a cup of tea right now.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Tea? Really?”

“There is no alcohol in the house, if that’s what you’re asking,” Misha said, and carefully moved around Cas out into the hallway.

Dean shouldered past the angel – if he had meant Dean harm, he could have killed him a million times by now – and fell in step with Misha. “Hey, so, uh… not even beer?”

Misha shot him a glance, and sped up, not replying.

Fair enough. Dean trailed after him, trying not to feel envious of the nice suburban home in which he found himself. Cas’s cottage was one thing, but this – this was what he could never have, even if there were even any such homes left in the world he came from. A hunter’s life didn’t lend itself to living in nice and communal neighborhoods. It was the kind of life you spend apart from society, and the closest to a permanent home he had had in a long time was Camp Chitaqua, freezing in winter and waterlogged when it rained, where supplies were always short and the only alcohol was the hooch someone had started brewing and which tasted like piss, but at least could get you drunk. Sometimes, they would be lucky and be able to find some alcohol on their missions, but if it was any good, Chuck occupied it for medical supplies. Hell, Dean had cracked open the last bottle of whiskey with Cas the other night, but he had been saving it for two years, maybe more. It was a luxury, and he didn’t remember why he had wanted to break it open that day, but he remembered Cas lounging on their bed, all lose limbs and smiles, and for once, they had been happy smiles, because Dean had made him laugh, and Dean had been laughing…

Misha didn’t remind him of his Cas at all. Yeah, he was human, and yes, he was clearly more at home in his body than the angel following behind them, but every single of one of his movements was off a by a bit, and the voice was all wrong. It was eerie, really.

When Dean caught up with him, Misha stood in the kitchen, illuminated only by the worklight over the counter. He was looking through a collection of teas. Dean’s eyes travelled to the fridge, and he was wondering just how much food was in there, kept conveniently cool and fresh. His stomach rumbled.

“I don’t want to know,” Misha said.

“I’m sorry?”

Misha sighed and dropped a teabag into a mug that looked very well used. “I don’t want to know what happened to you, to make you…” He waved a hand at Dean. “Like that.”

“The fucking Apocalypse happened,” Dean snapped, and without waiting for an invitation, approached the fridge. His intention faltered when he spotted a note pinned to it by a magnet. It was in his handwriting, but signed ‘Jensen’.

_Early call. Sorry I couldn’t wait. Didn’t want to wake you up – looked like you needed sleep. Love you – Jensen_

Dean plucked it off the door. “Why’d you keep this?”

Misha turned away from the kettle. “What?” His eyes fell on the note, and his entire frame crumbled. “Oh.”

“If he’s dead, why keep this, and be reminded every time you open your fucking fridge? It’s stupid.”

Misha wrapped his arms around himself. “Please, stop.”

Dean tried to swallow his frustration and dropped the subject with an annoyed grunt. What was the point of keepsakes? Cas had tried to give him back his amulet after _it_ had happened, and Dean had never wanted to see it again. He needed no reminder that his brother was gone and it was his fault, _and_ that he would have to shoot him in the face. It would hurt, even though Cas told him that Sam was long gone. As if he could know. He pinned the note back to the fridge, pulling the door open with a little too much force.

He came face to face with empty shelves. “The hell? What do you eat, dude?” There was a stack of microwave dishes, and some leftovers in a container, but that was it. No beer, like Misha had said, and nothing fresh either, not even an edge of cheese.

Misha had poured his tea, and was peering around him. “I guess I haven’t been interested in shopping,” he said, but his voice sounded quizzical.

“What?”

“Nothing, just… I _thought_ Jen and I went out for groceries just the other day.”

“It is the universe adjusting itself around his lack,” Castiel said, from the door, making them both turn. “I think I understand. If Dean here has been transported to my universe, it stands to reason that the Dean from yours has been transported elsewhere as well.”

“Cas, that’s… So what, it happened more than once?”

“Apparently. I haven’t been able to sense the disruption in your case, because my universe has only been slightly disturbed by your appearance, but here, the damage is quite profound. I assume that because of your connection to Dean–”

“Jensen,” Misha interrupted. “His name is Jensen.”

Cas tilted his head in acquiescence. “Of course. Your connection must make you more sensitive to the change than would normally be the case.”

“So that’s why Jared doesn’t remember Jen being there?”

“If you have ascertained that to be the case, yes.”

Dean slammed the fridge door shut. “Cas. No offense, but I couldn’t care less about the how and why. Just _fix_ it.”

Cas moved into the kitchen and leant against the dinner table. “It is not so simple. Even returning you to your universe would have been draining, and this universe is very different from ours. It will slow the recovery of my powers considerably. However, if there is a disruption in the multiverses on this scale… I don’t know if it _can_ be fixed, but it explains why we ended up here instead at our destination.”

“Who even has the power to do something like that?”, Misha asked.

“Not a human, and not an angel either. I would have said that no one wielded that kind of power, but, quite evidently, I am wrong.”

Dean opened his mouth for a snappy retort when Misha’s phone buzzed in his pocket. “Dude, do people normally call you in the middle of the night?”

“People normally don’t appear in my bedroom, either,” Misha shot back, not missing a beat, set down his cup, and pulled the phone out. When he glanced at the caller ID, his eyes grew comically wide, then the color started draining from his face. “It says… it says it’s Jen.”

Castiel immediately pushed himself upright. “Take the call:”


	15. Chapter 15

_~ Vancouver ~_

If he had been alone, Misha would likely have stared at his phone until it had stopped ringing, knowing that he was hallucinating, that he had snapped, that calls from the dead were impossible. But Castiel and Dean were standing in his kitchen, and Jensen was maybe still alive somewhere, and wasn’t it ironic that Jensen should have been snatched from his universe twice in his lifetime?

With a trembling hand, Misha took the call. He pressed the phone to his ear, barely remembering to breathe.

The connection was horrible, but he could hear a sharp inhale on the other end, then a soft: “Mish?”

Misha’s knees felt weak, and he leant back against the counter for support. His eyes stung. “Jen?”

“Oh, thank god.” Jensen sounded so relieved, so _alive_ that Misha’s heart skipped a beat. He barely felt Dean grasp his arm and steer him to a chair where he collapsed. His whole body was shaking.

“Mish, you still there?” Jensen asked, a note of panic in his voice.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m still here. Fuck, Jen.”

Jensen gave a breathy laugh. “I’ve been having the weirdest day, Mish.”

Misha ran a trembling hand over his face, glancing between Dean and Cas. “Tell me about it.”

“It’s good to hear your voice. Not that…” Jensen cut himself off and Misha tensed.

“What?”

“There’s another you standing next to me right now, kind of.”

“Oh.”

“Mish, he’s an _elf_! No offense.”

Misha let out an involuntary chuckle. He had missed Jensen so much.

“Hey, how do you know the guy at the other end is your one?” Dean asked suddenly, and Misha felt cold dread rising in his stomach.

“Jen?”

“Yeah, still here. Shit, Mish, you sound wrecked.”

“Prove me it’s you?”

Jensen breathed in deeply. His voice remained soft. “Remember breakfast? We needed to be on set early, but you said the other day how much you loved late breakfasts in bed, with pancakes and all the trimmings, so I got up at an ungodly hour, even though you hate it when I do that. You didn’t mind so much when I brought you back pancakes and slices of fruit, and a mug of your favorite tea. Your kiss tasted like strawberries.”

Misha smiled despite himself and mouthed “It’s him.” at Dean and Cas. “Thank you. Jen, I missed you.”

Suddenly there was a commotion at the other end, and Jensen exclaimed, “Hey!” Misha jolted upright, his hand tensing on the phone, but what could he _do_ – he didn’t even really know where Jensen _was_!

“Jen?” he tried, terrified of what the reply would be.

“No, sorry for hijacking the phone… Misha.”

Misha felt his skin crawl. That was _his_ voice. Not his Cas voice but his very own. It still sounded strange and foreign when he heard it played back at him, even years of acting experience, and this decidedly wasn’t a recording. All he managed in reply was, “Oh.”

He heard a door fall shut on the other end of the line, and other-him dragged in a deep breath. “I’ll give you back in a second, just tell me one thing, ‘cause I need to hear it from you, okay?”

“Sure…”

“Are you happy? With him?”

“Jensen saved my life,” Misha said with feeling. It was true. After the _Incident_ he had been falling apart. And yes, they had been sort of friends before, colleagues, more like – he had still been the new guy, and Jensen and Jared had their own problems, but after… well, after the Incident they had grown very close very quickly, and suddenly Jensen was always there to catch him when he went off the rails. Jensen himself was starting to loosen up when he was around Misha, and two years later, after their panel in Rome, they had kissed for the first time. “I love him, and I have never been happier.”

For a moment all Misha could hear through the line was breathing, then the door clicked again. “Then I will do everything I can to get you back together.”

There was more rustling, and then Jensen was back. “Mish!”

“Still here, Jen,” Misha said, hoping that Jensen could hear his smile.

“Sorry about that. Things over here are a bit complicated.”

“Yes, I can imagine… Jensen, I should tell you that Dean and Cas are currently in our kitchen listening to us talk.”

“What?!”

“Well, I just talked to another version of myself, so I figured our day can’t get any stranger.”

“Dean and Cas? But they’re…”

“Fictional? Yeah, not so much. Apparently, they are alternative versions of us, and Cas says something has messed up the… multiverse?”

Cas nodded in confirmation, but Dean stepped forward, wiggling his fingers demandingly. “Give me that phone.”

“Why?” Misha asked, not really wanting to let go of his connection to Jensen, not really sure that he wouldn’t think he was dreaming after all if he did.

“Cause I wanna talk to him – me - him, of course.”

“Mish, what’s going on?”

“Dean wants to talk to you.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

_~ Terris Concordae ~_

Jensen could have sworn he had never heard a stranger sentence in his life. “I’m putting you on loudspeaker, why don’t you do the same? Misha and Jared are here with me, they might be able to help us figure this out – Mish, they have _magic_.”

Elf-Misha huffed, and nodded towards the phone as Jensen placed it on his palm. “And you have that thing there. Really not so different, Jensen.”

“Certain variants in the universes are to be expected,” a new voice said out of Jensen’s phone, and Jensen immediately recognized the speaker as Castiel. He sounded just like Misha acted him, all seriousness and gravel.

The expressions of Elf-Misha and Jared were priceless. _His_ Misha let out a low chuckle. “Meet Cas.”

“So what, how many universes do we have now?” Jared asked, getting straight to business, as usual.

“Three on my end,” Jensen’s Misha said on the phone. “Cas was returning Dean to his universe, but something went very wrong. We were just trying to figure out what caused this when you called.”

“Yeah, how did you manage that?” Dean – it had to be Dean – asked. Jensen recognized his voice, sort of, but he didn’t think he sounded quite so harsh, quite so uncompromising.

He tried to keep his voice jovial. “Hey, buddy. Where did you come from?”

“The tail end of the Apocalypse, if you must know,” Dean groused.

Jensen froze. “Shit, Mish – he’s from…”

“ _The End_ , yes, I figured.”

“Look, I love all this socializing, I really do,” Dean said with a healthy dose of sarcasm, “but can we please get back to business? If Misha here is any indication, my Cas is in deep trouble right now.”

“How did you manage to establish this connection?” Castiel asked, sounding closer than before. Jensen tried to imagine the three of them standing around their kitchen and just couldn’t. Misha and Cas, looking the same, but Misha in his casual clothes where Cas – well, who knew whether that Cas was still married to the trench coat – and Dean, not-Jensen, filling his space. But Dean from _The End_ was terrifying, dark and dangerous, even when Jensen had watched himself in the playbacks. He couldn’t imagine the real Dean, the one whose injuries weren’t played down for the maturity rating, who had been to Hell, whose main occupation was torturing demons. Who was out to kill his brother possessed by the Devil. It sounded fascinating as a _story_ , but terrifying for a reality. Even after the Incident, Jensen had clung to the hope that it was just a fantasy, but that hope was well and truly shattered now. This was very real. Misha loved messing around with accents, but he couldn’t fake a Dean, and he wouldn’t make a joke about this. Misha knew where to stop.

“Uh, that was me”, Jared, who hovered at Jensen’s side, spoke up, “I asked Jensen to provide something that connected to his world, and used a bit of magic on it, and here we are.”

“Very helpful, Jare,” Elf-Misha said, grinning wryly. It was scary how fast he had shaken off the melancholy that had been hanging over him even up to the point where he had grabbed the phone from Jensen. It had been gone as soon as he had stepped back into the room, and Jensen couldn’t help wondering what the Mishas had talked about. And wasn’t that another sentence he’d never thought he’d ever think.

Jared shrugged. “I don’t really know what I did, or how long it’ll last.”

“Communication across the multiverse is fairly simple – travelling between them, on the other hand… a displacement on the scale we have witnessed should have been impossible,” Cas put in.

“How impossible?”, both Mishas asked simultaneously, and Elf-Misha went on: “I know of no power in our world that could do it, not even the Fae, and they travel constantly between our realm and theirs. Then again, that’s not another dimension, just a layer of perception.”

Everyone fell silent for a moment, but Jensen wasn’t given enough time to wrap his head around _Fae_ , of all things, before Cas said: “I know of perhaps three powers who might be able to cause something on this scale, but I see no reason why they would.”

“And they are?” Dean prompted.

The answer came immediately, brief and to the point. “The archangels, God, and Death.”  

Dean scoffed, a sound that crackled in the phone’s speaker. “Yeah, okay, I see no reason why they would do this, either, but God and the angels are both dicks, so...”

Jensen swallowed. “Maybe it wasn’t a power in any of our universes. Aren’t all multiverses connected somehow?”

“They are,” Castiel said.

“Then what caused this might come from another universe entirely, and if it’s their fault, they need to fix it,” Jensen said, but there was no reply from the other end of the line. His blood ran cold. “Mish? Mish, are you still there?”

There was nothing, and then his phone gave a sad little bleep. _No signal_ flashed on the screen.

  


	17. Chapter 17

_~ Camp Chitaqua ~_

The mission didn’t go well. They didn’t lose any people, which was a plus, but they had barely gotten to the food when the Croats found them. After that, there was no chance to grab anything else. Cas had hoped for alcohol or pills, but now they were looking at so little food essentials that they would need to go on another raid – at least before the camp could survive on its own for a while while Cas was looking for the Colt. He hadn’t put any thought to who he would take with him – he would rather have gone alone, but he was only human, now, and you didn’t walk into a nest of demons without backup. Chuck would probably insist on coming, but he wasn’t happy with Cas, not about the supply situation, and not about the torturing. Not that Cas was particularly pleased with himself, but he just couldn’t find the energy to care.

He stumbled back into his cabin long after nightfall, not bothering to clean up the mess he had made of the mirror earlier. He just stripped and crawled onto the bed. Sitting cross-legged, he pulled his stash to his chest. He could barely see the little bottles of pills in the darkness, but it was clear that he would have to pace himself if he didn’t want to run out, and he couldn’t afford to run out. It was one thing having to go without the buzz of a high, but another entirely having to deal with the pain. Cas knew from experience that he just _couldn’t_ deal, not without some form of pain relief. He might be an addict, but the pain was not psychological. It was very, very real, and when he had first woken up to it, he had screamed until his voice gave out. And even then he hadn’t been able to stop, not caring that there was no more sound, not caring about or feeling anything except pain. As an angel, he hadn’t felt pain as such, at least not from human trivialities. By then, he had been falling slowly for a while, and he had learned what it meant to ache – but this, nothing could have prepared him for this, and there was nothing he could bring up in defense against it. Dean had taken him to Bobby’s, and the car ride had been unbearable agony up until the point where his brain just shut down. When he’d woken up, he’d been heavily medicated, and from then on, it had been a balancing act of finding his absolute minimal dose, ever more important the scarcer supplies became. “Minimal”, they had soon figured out, would have to be just this side of screaming, crippled, incoherent, and it helped if he had something to focus on, a mission. The mission had been Dean. Had always been Dean. Yes, Cas realized that Lucifer had to be stopped, but it was Dean for whom he had stayed, and Dean for whom he fought, and Dean was _gone_.

“Cas!”

Cas jerked, almost dropping the pills, and blinked into the twilight.

“Cas!”

There it was again, that hallucination of Dean calling his name. Cas dug his fingers into his knee. He was sure it couldn’t be a ghost. He had checked with Chuck, and he had, in fact, been sane enough to burn Dean’s body. The cross out back was symbolic as much as anything. Dean couldn’t possibly be calling for him. Cas should perhaps be more worried about his sanity, but he really couldn’t have cared less. If he was going insane, then so be it – he just wanted to remain functional long enough to get a shot at killing Lucifer. And then, if he succeeded or if he failed, his life would have no meaning anymore either way. He just wished that it would be the kind of insanity that would let him be with Dean even if Dean wasn’t there. But not yet. Right now, it was all just pain and a distraction, and Cas could afford neither.

With a regretful sigh, Cas put away the pills and tried to relax, to enter some more peaceful frame of mind. It used to come so easily back when he was still a soldier of Heaven, back when that serenity was second nature.

“I see,” a voice suddenly said, and it wasn’t Dean’s. It was Cas’s own, only it was _Castiel_ ’s, the angel’s. Cas wasn’t entirely sure how he could still tell. He screwed his eyes shut and clenched his fists, ignoring the pull at his busted knuckles. “Fuck off,” he said into the empty darkness, and wondered how talking to the voices in his head could possibly be sane.


	18. Chapter 18

_~ The Bunker ~_

Dean barely saw the shadowy movement in the mirror, almost assumed it had been a trick of the light. But when he looked closer, he recognized Cas, clambering onto a king-sized as if it were the most complicated chore. He looked even worse than he had when Dean had first spotted him in the dimension thing. Cas just collapsed on the mattress for a moment before he sat back up and began rifling through a collection of prescription bottles that gave Dean the creeps. It had been… five years? Six years? since he’d been to that future and had met this shadow of Castiel – and his own future-self, who wasn’t much better. Dean figured his own actual future hadn’t looked too pretty in the end, either, but this horror vision still haunted him. He couldn’t bear seeing Cas with any sort of medicinal aid.

“Cas!” He called out into the hallway, knowing that his Cas would be listening. However much his instincts screamed that he shouldn’t trust him while his mind told him that that was the Chaos talking, Dean was still glad that Cas was there. Maybe he hadn’t gotten quite as bad as future-Dean yet – at least, he hadn’t been pushing Cas away. Not while he was in his right mind, anyway. That had been the Mark talking, and hell, he knew that was a shitty excuse, as was the Chaos – clearly both were speaking to his innermost fears. But Cas had seen him at his lowest, had seen him in hell, and he hadn’t turned away yet. If there was anyone in the world who would understand, it was him. Even while Dean didn’t believe it would last – or while the Darkness was trying to shatter whatever hope he’d once had that it might, for once, work out, that Dean Winchester could be happy without ruining everything else in the progress – even so, Cas was still here, and he was _grateful_. They were so far out of their debt with this, and if not even Cas knew what to do…well, Dean would rather have a clueless angel by their side than away from them.

“Cas!”

A moment later, Cas came jogging along the hallway – and that was still strange, to see Cas run instead of using his wings, and what was up with that, anyway? But Dean didn’t have time to ask. He looked back at the mirror, finding that the image was still there, and other-Cas was now stretched out on the bed. Cas studied the image for a long moment; then his eyes moved over the writing in the frame.

“I see.”

They both saw Cas-in-the-mirror jerk, and traded a glance. Dean mouthed _He can’t hear us, right?_ at the same moment that mirror-Cas said: “Fuck off!”

Well, shit.

His Cas placed a hand on Dean’s arm for a moment, calming, before he stepped closer to the mirror. “Castiel,” he said placidly. “This is not a hallucination.”

“You’re going to just talk to the guy?” Dean burst out, unable to stop himself.

“It seems the most practical approach to this situation. We need to ascertain how much damage has been done by the Darkness, or whether our hypothesis is wrong and it has, in fact, already spread beyond us.”

Mirror-Cas had sat up again, and, eerily, was looking straight at them, just staring. He didn’t say a word.

Cas on this side looked uncomfortable under the stare, his eyes skittering restlessly over his alter-ego. “You can hear us.” It wasn’t exactly a question.

Mirror-Cas inclined his head. “I can hear you.” He sounded… jeez, his voice sounded close to cracking. “Which year are you from?”

“2015,” Cas said, “but our timelines will have evolved differently.”

“Of course.” There was a grin suddenly on mirror-Cas’s face, one Dean had prayed to never see again, brittle and _wrong_. “Dean is with you?”

“Yes,” Dean felt obliged to confirm.

“Good,” mirror-Cas said. “Why are you contacting me, and how?”

“I’m not sure _how_ ,” Cas replied, “we find ourselves battling the Darkness.”

Mirror-Cas dragged in a sharp breath, and pushed himself off the bed and onto his feet. “What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” Dean grumbled, not wanting the guy to know. If he was an early version of the one Dean had met – well, the guy had been through enough shit already. “Hey, where’s your Dean?” he asked before he had time to notice Cas’s hand which had shot out to stop him. “What?”

“He’s gone,” both Castiels said in unison. Okay, like that wasn’t creepy at all.

“What?”

“Look, _Dean_ , I don’t really know. I’m not an angel anymore, and well, things have changed.”

“I can see that,” Dean snapped.

“I don’t remember, okay! I woke up this morning, and even though I could swear I had sex with him yesterday, Chuck says he’s been dead for a month. That good enough for you?” Mirror-Cas shot back.

“Whoa, okay. Too much info, dude.” That version of Cas had had sex with that version of Dean? Dean was struggling to wrap his head around that particular fact, thinking back to his experience there. To him, it had looked like there was resentment boiling between the two, not love – but hell, he wasn’t going to judge someone else’s relationship. Anyways – “Hey, if he’s in the same universe I witnessed back when, you know,” he said to his Cas, rubbing his neck as the blue stare turned towards him, “how come his Dean’s dead?”

“It might be a different universe,” Cas said, and turned back to the mirror, “but what you’ve described is curious.”

“What, my black hole of a memory? Yeah, not so surprising, really, Castiel.” Mirror-Cas reached beside the bed and held up a pill bottle. “Happens when you take too many of these.”

“I don’t think your memory is faulty.”

“Yeah, as if I’m the first human to hallucinate the survival of a lover.”

Okay, now that Dean was watching for it, he could see his Cas tense up at the references to their relationship. Huh.

“What I mean is, do you have any possibility of determining whether your universe has been disrupted?”

Mirror-Cas gritted his teeth. “What part of ‘human’ didn’t you get? I have no grace left!”

“I can see that,” Castiel replied, extraordinarily calm. “There are alternative ways.”

“You know what, there are. I’ll go and beat the crap out of the demon we captured, maybe he’ll tell me.” There was so much sarcasm constantly in Cas’s voice that Dean couldn’t tell if he was being serious, but at his words the image in the mirror started to flicker and fade.

“Wait!” his Cas called out, but it was too late.

Cas sighed, and turned back to Dean.

Dean shrugged. “Now what?”

“We can only keep watching the mirror. However, this… removal of Dean is interesting.”

“You think that’s the Chaos?”

“There is a distinct possibility. This is good news, Dean.”

“Yeah, except we still don’t know how to stop it.”

****

It was Sam’s turn to watch the mirror, and so Dean took Cas for a quick run into town to pick up Claire. Cas didn’t need a chauffeur, of course – he had his own car now, but it had been left behind after… well, after the Darkness had happened, and they had simply had no time to spare to go and get it. In the end, they would probably just get Cas a new one, but they hadn’t really talked about it. Cas hadn’t said a word about what had happened to him before they had both woken up in the Bunker, with Chaos trying to eat its way through their relationship, and Dean hadn’t pressed. It was none of his business what Cas chose to tell him or not.

Dean let the Impala idle at the curb while Cas got out to greet Claire. He watched as she pulled Cas into an embrace and Cas hung onto her slightly too long. Claire had acquired a new set of casual clothes under Jodie’s care, but apart from that, she looked no different. Dean shook himself. Of course Claire wouldn’t. It had only been a few weeks since they’d seen her last, even though it seemed like an age to him. In between, he had sorely broken the promise he had made her, and right now, he couldn’t bring himself to care, even though he knew he should, knew that he owned Cas the biggest apology, but he didn’t think any half-hearted attempt now would be received particularly well. It was better, easier, to just pretend everything was normal between them, even when they both knew nothing was, and it wasn’t just about the Darkness.

Cas and Claire exchanged a few words, then she tossed her duffel bag at him and slipped past the angel into the shotgun seat.

“Hey!” Dean protested, hating the part of him that felt relief that Cas wouldn’t be the one silently sitting beside him on the drive back as he had on the drive out.

“Oh, don’t be such a grumpy old man,” Claire shot back, ignoring Dean’s splutter, and buckled up just as Cas slid into the backseat without a token of protest.

Dean tightened his grip on the wheel, pulling away and onto the road again.

“Should have known you’d screw things over for all of us again,” Claire said, without malice.

“None of us knew what the removal of the Mark would entail,” Cas put in from the back. “As I told you on the phone..:”

“More pressing concerns, yeah, I remember.” Claire twisted a strand of her hair between her fingers. “I brought you something to jog your memory. It’s in the bag.”

Dean glanced into the rear view mirror, watching Cas carefully unzip the bag, unearthing a familiar grumpy cat toy that lit up his face, and huh, Dean still loved seeing that strange smile that lit up his eyes but barely reached his mouth.

“Shut up,” Claire said, even though no one had said anything. “Not that.”

Cas carefully moved the cat out of the way, uncovering a few well-thumbed books. “The Winchester Gospels?”

“Oh god, no,” Dean groaned, resisting the urge to bang his head against the wheel. “Not you, too.”

“Someone who calls themselves ‘Moondoor Queen’ on the internet has been selling printed copies of the unpublished volumes for charity. Jodie got them for me.”

Dean tensed up at the mention of the person’s nick, his gut twisting at the thought of Charlie, and Cas suddenly met his eyes through the mirror with an expression of thinly-veiled concern. It wasn’t unwelcome – not exactly. Part of Dean tried to tell him that it was fake, but another part felt relief that Cas could still even feel concern for him. The contradiction was making him queasy. “Alright, what should we do with them?”

“Read them. Refresh your memory. I know they’re accurate.”

“They are _scary_.”

“Dean,” Cas said with slight reprimand, turning back to Claire. “I don’t think there will be time for extensive reading.”

“That’s why I only brought the most relevant ones.” Claire twisted back in the seat, picking through the paperback volumes. “Here, that’s for you.” She shoved a book at Cas’s chest.

Cas took the book from her, carefully turning it upright so he could read the cover. “ _The End_?”

Claire shrugged. “Yeah, Chuck’s working titles aren’t very inspiring. But trust me, it’s the right one.”

“Please tell me there’s no illustrations,” Dean groaned.

“Not in the charity prints, no. Well, apart from the cover.”

“I have always found the illustrations to be… very interesting,” Cas said, and Dean could have sworn he was teasing, if he wasn’t a frigging angel of the lord.

“Widely inaccurate, is more like it!”, Dean protested, pulling up into the road that led to the bunker. “I’m glad you didn’t use them for reference when you rebuild me after Hell!”

“Of course I wouldn’t. Human depictions are often inspired, but seldom accurate. I remember Raphael became often quite enraged by the liberties taken,” Cas replied, calmly, his eyes scanning the cover, which looked actually quite neat, something abstract or other.

Claire glanced between them and snorted, folding her arms. Dean could have sworn he saw her mouth ‘idiots’.


	19. Chapter 19

_~ Vancouver ~_

“Jen? Jensen, are you still there?”

There was no reply, and Dean watched as Misha snatched the phone off the table in what was as near to a full-blown panic as Dean had ever seen on that face. His Cas didn’t do panic, didn’t even do fear anymore. The last time Dean had seen him panicking was when the angels had left and since then nothing seemed to faze him anymore.

“He’s gone,” Misha declared numbly, flicking off the screen and returning the phone to his pocket. The shuttered, carefully guarded expression that settled on his face now was more familiar to Dean. “What now?” Misha asked.

“Jensen might be correct,” Cas said. He was running a hand absent-mindedly over his forearm where Dean knew the Mark was hidden. “It is certainly possible that we cannot ascertain the cause of this because it is not localized in our universes.”

“That doesn’t explain why we ended up here, though,” Dean pointed out, leaning against the counter and folding his arms. “Dude, no alcohol, I know, but do you at least have coffee?” It wasn’t like he couldn’t work without it, certainly not. He also didn’t just say it to distract Misha, who looked on the verge of crying. Why would he. This wasn’t his Cas, he had no reason to care. _Right._

Misha squared his shoulders and pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah. Hang on.”

While Misha rummaged through the cupboards, Dean fixed his gaze on the other fake-Cas. “Can you try again? Getting me back, I mean? I’m sure Misha’d appreciate having us gone.”

“I hesitate to risk it, Dean. The multiverse has infinitesimal variations, and we have been very lucky to arrive in one that is still relatively similar to ours. We could have ended up in one that is incapable of sustaining human life, or in which angels roam to Earth – they would not take kindly to me. I am not willing to risk your life like that.”

“I’ve been risking my ass on behalf of this godforsaken planet for _years_ , now, Cas! I don’t expect much – in fact, I expect to just die when I’m done, but I have a job to do, and I need to get back to it!”

“Coffee.” Misha shoved a mug at him, sounding hoarse. “So what now? Just sit around here?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“No way in hell!”

Angelic aggravation rose in Cas’s eyes – hell, if this had been _his_ Cas, they would already be yelling. This Cas’s voice was still even and patient. “Dean…”

Misha suddenly stepped in between them, resolute. “Okay, enough! You are both standing in my kitchen, and I’m not going to have this stupid discussion over again!”

Dean stared at him, astonished. He’d pegged the guy for a meek civilian, the kind of which he had seen die by scores in the last years, or become demon vessel, or turn into Croats. They had no defense against the supernatural in their picket-fence lives and most didn’t have the guts it took to get out there and find support like Dean’s Camp. So, they died. Sure, he’d seen the muscles moving under Misha’s shirt, but a lean body was not necessarily a sign for a fighter. Apparently, he’d been wrong.

Castiel, to Dean’s secret glee, had fallen equally silent.

“Good. Better,” Misha said, glancing between them. “Now. Cas, if you were to travel alone, I’m assuming there’s no way to guarantee you’d find your way back here?”

“No. I should always be able to return to my own universe, but this one is no less accessible to me than Dean’s.”

“So you could get back to yours.”

“Always. I-” Cas cut himself off, rubbing at his arm again. A small frown appeared on his brow. “I apologize.”

Dean’s hand fell onto his weapon of its own accord, his senses tingling. This wasn’t what it felt like to see a member of his squad flipping – turning into a Croat or just finding that they’d been bled on – but it was too damn similar. “Dude, what’s wrong with your arm?”

“I’m not sure. I have never felt something like this in all the years since I took the Mark.”

“Mark? What Mark?” Misha asked.

Cas sighed and began rolling up his sleeve. Dean dragged in a sharp breath. Where Cas’s forearm had looked normal and unblemished with the exception of the Mark earlier, his veins were now an angry purple-red, the Mark itself inflamed and positively glowing.

“Oh,” Cas said, and promptly fainted.

 


	20. Chapter 20

_~ The Bunker ~_

“I don’t understand,” Sam said, looking over the books spread out on the library table. “Claire said she thinks these will help?”

“I don’t know, man.” Dean picked up one of the books and held it up for Sam so he could read the title: _Free to Be You and Me_. “She said to start with this one.”

Sam had known, of course, that the unpublished volumes of the Winchester Gospels had been leaked online – he had always suspected Becky to be behind it, but they had never been able to prove anything. Perhaps they should have been more persistent in tracing Chuck’s whereabouts, but had been so many things going on; they just never had had time. It wasn’t until Kevin that they had found out that Chuck had gone missing at all, and well… Cas had said he was most likely dead, and they had left it at that. Still, he had left his creepy god-inspired books behind, and Sam really couldn’t see why everyone they knew had the compulsion to read them. He especially didn’t see what reading about _their_ past could possibly do to help now.

Claire had refused to explain – she had just winked at him and had gone to join Cas in mirror-watch-duty.

“So what should I do? Just start anywhere?”

“I don’t think _you’re_ supposed to do anything,” Dean said, flicking the book open.

Well, the new covers were an improvement, at least, Sam supposed. “But if something is in there that can help, wouldn’t it be better to find it quickly?”

“If Claire was talking about specific _information_ , don’t you think she’d just tell us? She’s on our side, Sam, she has no reason to be cryptic.”

Sam shrugged. “She’s a teenager who doesn’t really like you very much.”

“Hey, we totally made up.” Dean let the book close around his hand, marking his place. “Besides, even if she hates me, she likes Cas, just a little. God knows why, he’s the reason her family fell apart.”

“Dean!” Sam said, horrified at the callous statement. Sometimes, it was almost like he could forget what was eating his brother and friend, but then Dean would blurt out with something like that or Cas would refuse to meet Dean’s gaze, and it would hit him all over again.

Dean gritted his teeth. “Sorry. I’ll just get down on this, then.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll… leave you to it.”

****

The problem was, Sam really had no idea what to do. Even when they were trying to get the Mark off Dean, there had always been _something_. Read another book, find new versions of the bible, crack a cypher, negotiate with Rowena – something. Now, there were no books to read, and there was no one to call for help. He was sure Dean would strangle him single-handedly if he tried to track down Rowena again, and nobody knew what had even happened to Crowley. Sam hadn’t even had time to ask Cas what had happened after he’d left the three of them in the warehouse to go after Dean. Sam sure as hell wasn’t going to drag Jodie into this so long the Chaos wasn’t running rampant, and hell, Metatron was still out there. Who knew what kind of power the demon tablet had in the hands of a human, and Cas was steadfastly refusing to talk to his siblings, so Sam wasn’t going to try contacting one of them, either. Not that he even knew of an angel he could talk to. Cas seemed to have taken a liking to Hannah, but Sam had never really met her, and all the other angels he had somehow known were dead – or sitting in the bunker with them.

He hadn’t felt this adrift in… ever, really. He’d always had something to do, some purpose, and there was still a purpose now – stop the Darkness, fix the mess they had created, but it seemed like this one would be a personal battle, with Cas and Dean at its center and Sam just… hovering around them, not knowing what he could possibly do to help except to keep reminding them that they were friends.

He could hear Claire and Cas talking in soft voices as he approached and… he really hadn’t wanted to listen in, but the first thing he heard was Claire’s exasperated, “What does that even mean, your faith in him?”

There was only silence from Cas.

“Wow, you really are a doof.”

“Claire…”

“Look, I get that you’re an angel and everything, but you have to see that you’re in love with him! And I don’t see that that has lessened any, or you wouldn’t still be sitting around here. So maybe the Chaos is taking away your faith, and I’m sure that’s horrible, but you are head-over-heals in love with Dean Winchester.”

Oops. Sam stopped in his tracks, really wishing he had turned back as soon as he heard that Claire and Cas were having a private conversation. He really, really should have turned back. Not that what he’d heard was a surprise, exactly – he had witnessed first-hand over the last year how far Cas would go for the sake of Dean, and how determined he was to save him. He had even known Cas loved him, had even _said so_ to Dean: if Cas was sticking around even after all he had _already_ done for them, surely it was an act of love. But Sam had never… he hadn’t wanted to put a label on it. Hadn’t wanted to come off as pushy, or intrusive. He had wanted his brother and Cas to figure out on their own what the hell this _profound bond_ thing between them was. He wasn’t going to play matchmaker for his brother – Dean was perfectly capable of figuring these things out, and so was Cas. Sam had wanted to give them _time_. But now, it seemed like time was running out, and there it was, hanging in the air.

Castiel didn’t reply for a very long time, and Sam had half-turned on his heels to pretend he hadn’t heard any of it – so he could face his brother and swear that he had no idea whether his angel was _in love_ with him – only for Cas to say quietly, “Sam, you may enter.”

Sam inhaled, unclenched his fists and stepped into Dean’s room, coming face to face with a very bemused Claire and Cas, who just looked sad, resigned. Sam felt a little as though he was the little boy again, presented to yet another new class with which he would never stick for long, nervousness trilling in his veins. “You knew I was there?”

Cas’s voice had no edge of threat, but it remained closed off, distant. “Of course. I am still an angel, Sam.”

“He’s an idiot, and so is your brother,” Claire declared, pushing off Dean’s bed and walking out, barely glancing at Sam as she went, her brow furrowed.

Sam hovered awkwardly in the doorway, focusing on the book that was resting on Cas’s lap, one of the angel’s hands clasped around it. “So, uh…”

“You don’t have to say anything, Sam.”

“Just… it’s okay, you know. If you love him. I’m okay with that.”

Cas closed his eyes and nodded, his expression relaxing fractionally. “Thank you.”

“Hey–” There was an important thought Sam had just had, he was sure, but then his eyes fell on the mirror, and he saw a shadow moving within. “Cas! The mirror!”

 


	21. Chapter 21

_~ Camp Chitaqua ~_

Cas didn’t really know what to do with the knowledge that his transdimensional alter-ego and his Dean were haunting him. He was glad, in a way, that it wasn’t just a hallucination. Hallucinating when he wasn’t even high – not even remotely funny. On the other hand, crossdimensional communication? Even back in the day, that would have astounded him, and that was surely saying something.

He had known it was possible, of course. Angelic knowledge did have its perks, but when he’d still been a member of the Host, they had been strongly discouraged against travelling through the multiverse. As aware as they all were of the existence of multiple universes, only the archangels held the power to fully command the multiverse. Like time travel, it was one of the things that came easier to them, that seraphs – like Castiel used to be – could only meddle in. Archangels could sustain parallel universes, or pocket dimensions, of their own, become _creators_ in their own right. Only God and the humans had that same power. A simple seraph wasn’t equipped to create, to even think of making something new, doing something without precedent, and exceptions were punished. Cas, of course, was a prime example of that. Regardless, a seraph would be subject to the forces of an alternative universe as much as they were in their own – they would have no more control, and depending on the universe’s structure, they might have less.

So yes, travel to parallel universes was possible, but what was the point? Chances were, you ended up somewhere much worse, and with no techniques or knowledge to navigate that environment. No, “Unless the universe is of your own making, do not enter it had” been the golden rule. After all, so the doctrine went, their Father had put them in the universe they belonged, and even the archangels weren’t unique across the multiverse – there were variations of them in other dimensions, as well. Castiel had always assumed that God, in fact, did exist only once, but he simply did not know, nor had he ever cared. He had never had to worry about the multiverse before – as if his own universe crumbling down wasn’t bad enough.

Lucifer would know. The Morning Star would know if there had been a disruption in the multiverse, but Cas couldn’t exactly ask _him_. The only being he could ask was the demon the retcon team had captured in the woods. They had brought him in merely because no demon should be wandering around the outskirts of the Camp’s grounds, not because they hoped to clean any valuable information from it. But demons as a species were equally as attuned to the world’s balance as angels. Their powers didn’t come as instinctively or naturally as an angel’s – in fact, there was always something _unnatural_ about a demon – but that didn’t make their powers less reliable or less accurate.

In truth, Cas had planned on just killing the demon. Not because killing was his method of blowing off steam, though he had to admit that there was something satisfying about vanquishing demons. It was simply that there was no point in torturing lowly demons for information, and they couldn’t risk an exorcism with a demon that had come so close to the Camp. Keeping their location hidden had kept them safe for years, and Cas wasn’t going to be the one to risk that. He supposed he might as well make use of the demon while he had him.

At least the other Cas had still been with Dean.

****

Chuck tried to stop him. Cas could have sworn the ex-prophet had just been lingering about the grounds for that exact purpose, and he stepped into his path as soon as Cas approached the hut.

“Don’t.”

“Get out of my way, Chuck.”

“You’ll hate yourself after.”

Cas just laughed. There was nothing, _nothing_ , that could make him hate himself more than he already did. “I won’t be long.”

“Just let someone else kill it tomorrow.”

“There is some information I need,” Cas said, even though he really didn’t owe Chuck any sort of explanation. If they expected him to run the Camp in Dean’s stead, they better well expect him to run it like Dean.

Chuck made an abortive movement, the old edgy nervousness creeping into his manner. “But it was you who said there was no point in keeping low-level demons alive.”

Cas summoned up the energy for a careless, rolling shrug. “I changed my mind. What does it matter, Chuck? It’ll be dead by tomorrow anyway!”

Chuck set his jaw.

“Oh, fine,” Cas said, dealing a low blow and making a show of not caring. He had gotten rather good at that. “Prolong the suffering of its host.”

To his surprise, Chuck stood his ground. “If that were the reason you’re doing this, I’d let you through.”

Okay, Cas had had enough. He might be human know, but he used to be a soldier of Heaven, and he could still fight. He took hold of Chuck’s wrist, twisting it backwards. The smaller man instantly cringed, flailing with his free hand.

“Ow! Cas, ow!”

Cas let him go. “Now leave me be.”

This time, Chuck didn’t try to stop him, just stared after him, cradling his wrist.

****

The demon was taken by surprise by Cas’s question, but it didn’t resist for long. It knew its death was imminent and a demon of such low levels probably hadn’t spent a very long time in Hell. Cas didn’t have it in him to feel sorry for it when he drove the angel blade into its chest. Without even bothering to clean up, he hurried back to his cabin.

He had no idea how to contact other-him – it wasn’t as if there was a device hidden in his cabin, or he had been drawing on some hidden angelic power. He’d _never_ had enough power to project across dimensions. But both times the connection had been established, he’d been wallowing, grieving. Thinking about _his_ Dean. Cas would have _loved_ to avoid doing that, but he needed to speak to other-him immediately. He had thought, ever since he had pulled Dean from Hell, that that was the most monumental occurrence he had ever witnessed. Dean’s soul had been so beautiful, so breathtaking even in the depths of the pit, and Cas had been so honored, so _proud_ to be the one to raise him. It had been the most important event of his existence, and he had seen a lot. But _this_ , this was bigger than any of it, bigger than Lucifer, even.

Cas threw the bolt closed, pulled the curtains, and settled onto the bed. He had no idea if the dimensional communication was visible to anyone else like it was to him: the specter-like figures of Dean and Cas standing in his room and talking to him, fading in and out of view as if they were sharing a screen and jostling for a place in front of it. Regardless, he couldn’t risk any intrusions or prying eyes, and the darkness was calming.

Cas tried to shake some of the tension off his shoulders, pulling himself together enough to meditate and focus his mind on making contact. And if his mind circled around _his_ Dean as he was doing it, that shouldn’t be a problem. Dean had all he’d been thinking about before, after all, and who could blame him? He only wished he had Dean here now, so they could deal with this, _together_ , like they always had.

“Cas!” A voice exclaimed, and Cas had snapped his eyes open and gone for his gun before he could process what was happening.

He immediately dropped the gun back onto the mattress, forcing his hand to release the grip. His every muscle was pulled taught and he _ached_ , deep down to his bones. It was a chore to shake off the tension again. “Fuck me,” he breathed into the cool air.

Sam. Sam, not Lucifer. _Sam Winchester_ was standing behind other-Cas, looking at him with a startled expression. He looked older – oh, so much older than Cas had last seen him. His hair had changed, too, but in his astonishment he was still unmistakably Sam.

“Uh…” Sam said, then faltered, and stuttered out: “Something wrong?”

Cas summoned up a smile from somewhere, not caring if it came out wrong. “It has been a long time since I saw you last, Sam.”

“Oh – oh right!”

Cas saw the realization dawn on Sam’s face and averted his gaze. Perhaps it was a good thing Dean wasn’t here with him, after all.

There was some rustling on part of the others, and when Cas glanced back up, other-him had moved beside Sam, the large frame of the Winchester brother more of shadow against a wall than a three dimensional specter now. “Have you been able to discover something?” other-him asked.

Cas was relieved, in a way, by the angelic tendency to get straight to business. It felt comfortable, familiar. He fell into the pattern easily enough, even after all these years as quasi-human. “Yes. You were right. When I asked the demon whether it could sense a disruption in the universe… it looked _scared_.”

Other-Cas inhaled. “The removal of your Dean might not be due to a lack of memory.”

Cas tensed, really, really wanting to get drunk right now. He was way too sober for this kind of conversation. “Look, I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not going to believe that until I see proof. I can’t afford it, Castiel.”

“I understand,” other-Cas said, and Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably but didn’t speak. Other-Cas glanced at Sam briefly, and then focused back on Cas. Cas wondered idly how he appeared to them, whether he was also a ghost-like appearance wherever they were. He couldn’t discern their surroundings, and only hoped that they couldn’t see his cabin. “We are working on correcting it,” other-him said in a tone that was no doubt meant to be reassuring.

Cas reached over to the bedside table for his pills, just to have something to occupy his hands. “Well, if you’re up against the Darkness, I better hope you have some archangels on your side… but from your expression I guess not.”

“Gabriel was killed in the fight against Lucifer, and he and Michael were locked in the cage.” Other-Cas paused, something flickering over his face. Was that… guilt? Huh. Cas couldn’t remember his own expressions being so telling back when he was still an angel. “I killed Raphael,” other-Cas went on.

“Woah.” Okay, that was… interesting. Never mind that they were barely two years ahead of him, their universe had run an entirely different course. “I’m sorry, Castiel, but I really don’t know what I could possibly do. Without Dean, I somehow ended up running this shithole. And if it is the last thing I’ll do, I will make an attempt at killing the Devil.”

Other-Cas nodded, his expression solemn. “I will do what I can to set the multiverse right.” And with that, both he and Sam were gone.

Cas just wished Dean had been there with them.


	22. Chapter 22

_~ The Bunker ~_

When the mirror turned blank, Cas picked up his book again and turned towards Sam. His hypothesis had been confirmed, but he couldn’t feel any relief about it. If the Chaos had made it its goal to drive him and Dean apart in all possible variations, it looked like it was already succeeding.

What Claire had said…it simply couldn’t be true.

“Cas, are you okay?”

“Yes,” he said, automatically. It didn’t feel like a lie. But really how could he be ‘okay’ if he had lost the very thing that had kept him going ever since he had first rebelled – his faith in Dean – only to have it replaced with the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to stop any of it. This time, he didn’t even have Dean to fix it in one of those ridiculously human and self-sacrificing acts.

Sam didn’t look like he believed him. “Should we go talk to Dean?”

“That would be best.”

****

They found Dean still in the library, sitting behind a pile of Claire’s books and engrossed in his reading. Cas was reluctant to let go of the book that Claire had picked specifically for him – it was the whole explanation of Dean’s experience in the then-future of 2014, and it was a testimony to the faith Cas had once had in the man. It had been carefully chosen by Claire, and it _was_ a powerful reminder – but when Cas looked at Dean now, when he reached into himself now, all he found was disappointment and an incessant ache he didn’t want to identify.

Dean looked up when they settled down around the table, raising an eyebrow. “News?”

“Well, yeah. We know the Chaos spread through your relationship across the multiverse,” Sam explained.

“Awesome,” Dean said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. He put the book down. “So now what?”

Silence.

Castiel could feel the Winchesters’ gaze on him, but he couldn’t face them. “I simply don’t know. I am sorry.”

“But… this is good news, right? It means the Chaos hasn’t spread to anyone else. The world isn’t ending yet?”

Sam’s hopefulness was almost painful to Cas. He sighed. “I don’t know how to contain it, Sam. The Mark was created solely for that purpose, and it took the combined force of God and the archangels to do it. Lucifer used to be the most powerful of us all, there simply… As my alter ego pointed out, there is simply no such force left in our universe.”

“So why don’t we go to any of the others and fetch someone from there?”

Cas shook his head, not needing to look up to know that Dean was scowling. “While interdimensional travel is possible, my grace is severely diminished. Even at full power, it would be far more strenuous than time travel, and I don’t think anyone in Heaven is currently capable of it.”

“So what, just roll over and wait for the world to end?”

At that, Cas did look up, meeting Dean’s glare. “You and I will hold out as long as we can. After that…”

Dean’s eyes flared with anger. “Hell no!”

“Dean…” Cas began, carefully.

“This is bullshit! I’m not going to just sit around here!”

“What, then, would you suggest?” Cas shot back, unable to stop himself. “There is nothing to _gank_ , Dean! And excessive inebriation won’t cure this, either!”

“Hey, it was _you_ who suggested we get stinking drunk the last time we thought the world was ending!”

“That makes my point no less valid, Dean! Between us, we have broken the world, and the least we can do is accept the responsibility for it!”

“So what, walk to the nearest news station and tell them that the Winchesters have broken the world?!”

“Stop! Stop it, both of you!”

Cas sank back into his chair, grateful for Sam’s interruption. He knew he wouldn’t have stopped himself, not for the man who only a few days ago had – no. He didn’t allow himself to think that. This was _Dean_. He was forgiven, always, even if Cas found it difficult to remember _why_ at the moment.

Dean remained standing for a little while longer, but his scowl faded and he sank back down. “Great. So we can’t even do anything to fix those other universes?”

Cas inhaled and made his decision. “There is one last thing I will try.”

“What’s that?”

“I will contact Hannah. But first, I will need a car – I want to drop Claire off where she will be safe, for a while at least, and then…” Well, there simply was no telling how the angels would react to his request for assistance. He had betrayed them all, even Hannah who had trusted him, when he had freed Metatron – and failed to return him. If this had been the old Heaven, under Michael, under Raphael, he would already have been punished. Chances were that even now, he would not be allowed to return to Earth again if he ever came back to Heaven. Chances were that this was the prize he would have to pay for the angels’ help.

Sam cleared his throat into the silence. “Cas… you don’t have to go alone, you know. We got your back.”

Cas shook his head. “No, it is my responsibility that Metatron escaped. If the prize for Heaven’s help in this is that this debt is paid, then so be it. I will find Claire, and leave immediately.”

****

No one had stopped Cas when he had first walked out of the library, the two Winchesters sitting in silence. Castiel didn’t have many belongings to pack – most of it was still in his car, not that there was much. He still had his angel blade, and now he would be taking Claire’s luggage and the book she had given him, nothing more.

He didn’t intend to fight the angels if they insisted on arresting him. Some of these days, he thought the world might be better off with him locked away – certainly Heaven would have been better off, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave Dean. If there was ever a time he could go through with saying goodbye to the Winchesters, it was now. Now… he no longer believed that Dean had the capability of setting things right, and still… Still Cas wasn’t sure whether he could have come to decision to give himself up to the Host if it weren’t also _for Dean_ , like everything he had done in the past years had been. He didn’t understand this conflict, the world of emotions still a mystery, even now – especially with the false pressure the Darkness put on their relationship which Cas found increasingly more difficult to recognize as an intrusion. Perhaps Claire was right. Perhaps there was a difference between his faith in Dean, and his love. Perhaps the Darkness was targeting his faith, and his faith only.

Claire would be waiting in the car out front by now – when she heard of the plan, she had insisted on accompanying him, and Castiel had pretended to allow it. He had no intention of letting Claire anywhere near his brothers and sisters. Angels had already caused far too much damage in her life, maybe it was time to let her go. Maybe then, if he was ever allowed to return to Earth, one of her descendants would agree to be his vessel. The thought of Claire being free to have a family, a normal life from now on was a comfort.

“Cas, hold up!”

“Dean.” Castiel felt cold at the ambiguity in the pleasure he found in Dean’s voice, Dean’s presence, unsettled by how adrift he felt, how much he wished to be anywhere but here, how much he wished to return to the times where he was just an angel – how much regret he felt at having ever rebelled. And yet, why did it feel so difficult walking away? He stopped, letting Dean catch up, but didn’t turn around to face him.

Dean caught up, and simply talked to his back. “You don’t want to talk to me, I get it. I don’t really want to talk to you either, because of course you are _leaving again,_ and I’m actually really mad about it,but… Cas, I’m a friggin’ coward, okay, and if this is the end, if this is how we go down, how the two of us end… look, I don’t want it to be like when you were fighting Raphael. I should never have left you in that ring of Holy Fire, and I should have listened to you, and I can’t have us parting like that again, and even if it feels like a crazy dream right now, I know that normal me would…” Dean walked around him, stopping right in front of Cas, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t know, I’m rambling. I guess I’ll just cut to the chase, eh?” He rubbed a hand over his neck. “Normal me would probably never have said anything, I don’t know, but right now it seems like a laughable fact to me, even though I know it isn’t, okay, and it’s messing me up, but if this is the last chance, and if that’s the only way I can say it… I…” He looked up, trying to meet Cas’s gaze. “I’d really like to kiss you, Cas.”

Cas looked into the green eyes and for a moment, his mind, centuries old and so accustomed to a multitude of perceptions, simply was blank. “Oh.”

There was something in Dean’s gaze Cas hadn’t expected. At least, he hadn’t thought he would still find it there. Dean had always looked at him with a kind of trust, of understanding that was no longer there, had not been there under the influence of the Mark, nor with the Chaos. And yet, Dean had still prayed to him – so powerfully that he had reached across the dimensions simply because the mirror was present to channel his thoughts. And yet, Dean was now standing in front of him, something like hope in his eyes, hope… and trust?

Dean laughed nervously. “Uh, is that squint a good sign? I mean… I think its adorable, but, uh…”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Something that Claire said.”

“What was that?”

“That love is something other than faith.”

“Okay?” A little furrow appeared between Dean’s brows. “What’s that supposed to mean? Like I know this isn’t a good time–”

Cas allowed the smile he’d been holding back to blossom on his face. “It means, shut up, Dean.”

When Dean met his gaze, Cas placed a hand at the back of his neck and leant in. Dean met him halfway. From a human perspective, Cas supposed, the kiss was nothing special – nothing particularly experimental, or incredibly passionate or even particularly long or open-mouthed. But for him, just for a moment, the world just stopped. As an angel, his sense had always been keener than a human’s, even with stolen grace, and now with his diminished own, expanding beyond the sensation his vessel was picking up. It didn’t matter that Jimmy was no longer there – Cas’s _body_ was so much more, his perception of the universe so much more fragmented, detailed, harmonious where human senses were dull, and yet so flat when it came to emotion, or tactile sensations, or pain. Now, he allowed himself to shut it all down, to focus solely on _Dean_.

Dean hummed against his lips, sending a tingle vibration into Castiel’s core when Dean’s human soul soared with joy. Cas shut his eyes, digging his hand into Dean’s hair. Dean responded by deepening the kiss, pressing his lips more firmly against Cas’s, his arms coming around Cas to pull him closer, his breath tasting of the beer he had been drinking. He smelled like old books, like comfort, and home, and when exactly had _Dean_ replaced any conception he had ever had of “home”?

It was Dean who broke the kiss, still holding Castiel close. Cas opened his eyes, just so he could look into Dean’s.

“Hey,” Dean whispered, bumping their foreheads together. He gave a breathless chuckle, and Cas found that his other hand had come to rest on Dean’s heart, sending a steady beat through the tip of his fingers.

“I’m sorry it has to be this way, Dean.”

“Don’t ruin the mood, Cas.”

“Apologies,” Cas said dryly, and found that he was _praying_ that Claire was correct and that the Chaos would not be able to take this from him. He knew that the powers of Heaven could not – for all that Naomi had tried, but the Darkness was a much more ancient and powerful force. Still, he hoped and prayed. Even the other-Cas, who might have lost his Dean, he had still had his love for him – and if Cas was to do this, he needed this lifeline.

The bunker was silent around them, Sam busy elsewhere, Claire still at the car they had found for him. Castiel didn’t particularly want to move.

“For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry what happened when I still had the Mark. Even with the… Darkness, whatever, I swear to you, Cas, I will _never_ do something like that again,” Dean said, averting his gaze.

Cas dropped his hand down to his shoulder, it falling naturally in place. “Dean, I know. You were under the influence of the Mark, you weren’t yourself. I _know_. I might not be able to feel it right now, but I _know_.”

“We are such a mess.”

“I suppose we are.”

“You’re leaving now.” Dean’s lips pressed together, and his grip loosened.

“I-”

Suddenly, there was a flare of urgency, an incessant tugging at his grace, overriding whatever he had meant to say, whatever he had been thinking, his hands slipping from Dean’s shoulder and heart.

Dean gripped him by the shoulder. “Cas? Cas, hey, what’s going on?”

Cas looked up, trying to find something to hold onto in Dean’s gaze. “I’m being summoned.”

“What?”

“Someone has summoned me.”

Worry and anger flashed over Dean’s face all at once. “Can you tell who?”

“No. That’s not how this works, Dean.”

“Do you have to answer, then? It’s not like you can zap there and back,” Dean said, sounding frantic.

“I’m not forced to answer – I’m not a demon. But the… urge to answer a direct summons is very strong. I can’t afford this distraction, Dean.”

Dean’s brow furrowed, anger flaring again in his eyes. “So what, you’re going to walk straight into the trap?!”

“Guys! What’s going on?” Sam burst into the library, and Cas tried to overlook the way in which Dean stiffened and pulled back slightly, as if they hadn’t just shared a kiss.

“Cas’s received summons.”

“What? From whom?”

“It’s not possible to tell, Sam,” Castiel said, forcing himself to ignore the burning urge the summons caused within his grace. It was hard to think, to do anything other than to follow it, but he couldn’t fly – whatever he decided to do about the summons, he had to endure for now.

“But he wants to answer,” Dean added, sounding bitter.

Cas wanted nothing more to reassure him, to tell him that he wouldn’t, or that he would be able to find out who had summoned him first – but he couldn’t bring himself to lie. “It is… a great distraction I cannot afford if I am to negotiate with my siblings.”

“That’s it, I’m coming with you,” Dean declared, fishing the keys to the Impala out of his pocket.

Cas placed a hand on his chest, making him pause. “No. Dean, once this is dealt with I will ask Hannah to speak to me. I cannot allow you to be anywhere in the vicinity.”

“It’s a trap, Cas!”

“Then I will be careful. Please, Dean. Please.”

Dean closed his eyes, deflating. “Okay. Good luck, I guess.”

“Thank you.” Cas nodded towards Sam. “Sam.” Then he returned his gaze to Dean, and dropped the hand he had forgotten to remove from Dean’s heart. “Farewell, Dean.”

****

Cas had no sooner walked out of the front door that Dean dug out his keys again. He would be damned if he let the angel walk into this alone, not after what had just happened.

“Dean, what are you doing?” Sam asked, concern written all over his face.

“Pack. We’re going after him, of course.”


	23. Chapter 23

_~ Terris Concordae ~_

“Bring it back!”

“Whoa! Jensen! Calm down!” Misha caught Jensen’s hands, folding them gently around the useless phone. The elf ears and golden spots dancing in his eyes seemed like a mockery to Jensen, but he couldn’t pull away without falling backwards over Misha’s endless piles of books.

“Look at me, Jen.”

Jensen looked up automatically, hating himself for responding to the voice of the guy that wasn’t _his_ Misha. For all that he felt for this one and ached for his loss, _his_ Misha was sitting in their kitchen with Dean and Castiel, of all people, and he had sounded so… lost, so desperate to hear Jensen’s voice that…

“Jensen, please. I swear to you, me and Jared, we will get you back.” There was such sincerity in Misha’s eyes that Jensen found it impossible to look away. He felt like he was drowning. Misha steadfastly held his gaze and squeezed his hands. “I _swear_ to you.”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry.” Jensen cleared his throat, trying to shake of the gruffness that belonged to Dean, not him. He pulled one hand from Misha’s and held the phone out towards Jared. “But can you? Do it again?”

“Should be no problem.”

“Jared, wait.” Misha let go of Jensen’s hand, giving him a little more space. “Don’t you think we should have something new to tell them before we call again? Who knows how often it will work.”

“But how can we find out something new? It’s not like you’re an angel in real life! You have no idea what’s going on!” Jensen exclaimed.

Misha shrugged, his eyes sparkling. “Maybe not yet. But I know where we can go to find out.”

“How? You said I couldn’t leave the room.”

Jared handed the phone back to Jensen, nodding in agreement. “You really shouldn’t. Theater folk can get very suspicious. They won’t take kindly to the walking dead.”

Jensen rolled his eyes and wondered whether the franchise of that name existed in this universe, as well.

“We’ll just have to disguise you,” Misha said, unconcerned.

Jared’s head snapped towards him immediately. “No.”

“Come on, you _love_ the idea, Jared!”

“What idea?”

****

Five minutes later, Jensen regretted asking. “You want me to go out dressed in drag?!”

“No. I want to smuggle you to the observatory without anyone recognizing you, and the easiest way to do that is create an illusion around you so you appear as a woman to everyone else,” Misha said, apparently endowed with infinite patience where Jensen was concerned, even if it wasn’t his one. “Not that I don’t have a dress you could actually wear. I turned up to a performance in a dress once. That was fun.”

“Alright, but no thank you.”

Misha’s eyes twinkled. “It’s a shame. There’s a green dress in wardrobe that would really bring out your eyes.”

“Shut up.” Jensen wasn’t blushing. He _wasn’t_.

The corners of Misha’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Yeah, alright. Illusion it is. We’ll just have to wait for Jared to get back with the globes.” Misha settled down on the bed, patting the mattress beside him.

Jensen rolled his eyes and sat down, but kept his distance. “You can knock off the flirting, you know.”

Misha snorted. “Relax, Ackles. I’m not going to do anything.”

“Do you blame me for… I don’t know… not wanting to…?”

Misha went very serious very quickly, the change in his expression and posture almost scaring Jensen. “No. No, I’m sorry, Jen.” Misha’s hand twitched and Jensen was _sure_ he was itching to reach out to him, but instead he just let himself fall back onto the mattress. He brought his hand up to untuck a strand of hair from behind his ears.

Those ears really were something.

“I’ll have to get Misha to wear black more often,” Jensen quipped, trying to lighten the mood.

A low chuckle escape the elf, his muscles in his stomach quivering. “It’s mourning garb, Jen.”

“Shit, I’m so sorry.”

Misha waved a lazy hand in the air. “Don’t worry, you’re not the first one to make that mistake. The publicists told me I couldn’t go without stage wear, so I was forced to compromise. They forced me to take off my ring, so…” Misha wiggled his fingers, hooking the other hand behind his head and glancing at Jensen. “It’s weird, you sitting there.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I can tell you’re not him, you know. You don’t have a bit of magic in you, and Jensen… Well, he was mostly our lead singer, but really…” Misha let his arm drop into the cushion, and Jensen could swear he saw Misha’s eyes glaze over. He’d seen that look on _his_ Misha’s face only occasionally, when he caught him staring. If this was what Misha looked like when he was thinking of Jensen – well, he loved it.

“He used to craft our stories,” elf-Misha went on, “I don’t know if this makes sense to you. We have people who take care of the blocking and stage set-up, but he was in charge of what magic we used how and when. He was dedicated to a fault, always researching and planning, making it special for each location. Books inspired him.”

“Wait, all these-?” Jensen indicated the endless piles of books. “I thought they were yours.”

Misha pulled himself upright with a groan. “Some. Some aren’t. We were married. Everything just… merged.”

“Right, yeah. Mish and I… haven’t got around to that yet.” Jensen cleared his throat, deciding that a chance of topic was in order. “Hey, how long is Jared going to be?”

Misha was saved from replying by the arrival of said giant, slipping into the door with an agility that belied his muscular frame. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” Misha was on his feet with more grace than Jensen had ever seen on his Misha – Misha still had a runner’s body, but he had had to stop for a while after the _Incident._ Even now he wasn’t as careless about heading out as before, nor were his movements as lithe as they used to be. This Misha, this elf, had the grace of a dancer.

Jared tossed him a small globe – was that glass? – which Misha caught, and immediately made it glow. “Ready, Jen?”

“As much as I’ll ever be.”

Misha closed his eyes for a moment, both hands cupping the globe, then slipped it into his pocket, his eyes gleaming extraordinarily bright. “Shall we?”

“Brilliant, Mish,” Jared said, grinning at Jensen.

Jensen didn’t feel at all different, but when he looked down at himself, he found that he was wearing a flowing dress in forest green – or rather, it looked like he was wearing a dress, while he could still clearly feel his jeans hugging his hips. “Huh.”

Jared pushed the door open. “Shall we?”

Misha nodded, and held out his arm to Jensen. “Let’s go.”

Jensen hooked his arm under Misha’s with an eye roll, but it wasn’t like he knew the way – or even the standing of a woman in this society. He hoped that it wasn’t as blatantly misogynistic as his own world had a tendency of being, but this wasn’t the time or the place. All he had to go on, really, was that the women he knew had a very different sense of fashion.

As they stepped out onto the landing, Misha leaned in slightly. “Brace yourself. And try to swing your hips a little. You’re walking very… manly. But don’t slow down, and don’t let go. This is actually quite exhausting.”

Jensen had no idea what to brace himself for, so he focused on walking “womanly” and getting down the stairs in one piece with Misha attached to his arm. When they stepped outside, Jared in the lead, he knew what Misha had meant.

There were fans. Not just a few of them, but a whole gaggle of girls, and a few boys, just gathered outside the stage door and obviously waiting for a glimpse of Misha and Jared. Jensen heard a few “Who’s she?”s rising up, and Misha squeezed his arm reassuringly.

This was the kind of situation where they had bodyguards back in his universe. Where there were barriers and people trained for this stuff to hold the fans back. Where there was _anything_ more than just Jared’s frame keeping them safe. Misha had never been a fan of bodyguards, but they’d always seemed an unavoidable evil – either theater folk did not attract the same amount of crazy, or people here were better behaved, or they were just lucky.

The fans parted to let them through, and Misha smiled slightly as they passed, but Jensen could see a dark sadness in his eyes that hadn’t been there in the privacy of his room. The fans didn’t try to run after them as they stepped out into the street, though Jensen could still hear them calling their names. Huh.

Misha gently tugged at his arm, steering him to the left. The street wasn’t what Jensen had expected either. It was early evening, a soft golden twilight illuminating their way. It definitely wasn’t like the streets of Vancouver or LA, but it wasn’t the dirty medieval village type either. The sidewalk was neatly paved and clean, the road itself empty of cars, but in the distance Jensen could see something that looked like a vehicle. He couldn’t be sure how it was moving – he didn’t see anything drawing it, or hear the sounds of an engine. There were streetlights, but they had the same dim quality as those inside the building they had just left – the theater. Jensen craned his head, looking back over his shoulder.

The theater was the largest building in the area, two or three stories high where the houses around it had mostly just one. It was towering, large and beautiful, a rotund part merging seamlessly with the rectangular section from which they had emerged – there were no windows in the rotund, but the wall was broken up by a breathtaking mural that – hang on, that moved? The theater was set apart from the other buildings, the centerpiece of a square where the buildings they were now walking past were arranged in neat rows, some with little gardens out front.

“What are you doing?” Misha hissed, his hand tightening uncomfortably around Jensen’s arm.

“Sorry,” he murmured back, under his breath, just in case the illusion Misha had woven did not extend to his voice. “It’s interesting, is all.” He tried to keep his gaze to the front – and that was when he saw it, and almost stopped dead.

Misha sighed at his side, his fingers digging into Jensen’s arm – he didn’t seem to notice, and Jensen didn’t really mind. He would like to start breathing again, but the wind had been knocked out of him.

There were posters. Back home, he only saw Supernatural poster at conventions and maybe the odd media store. Here, the show – musical, whatever - was advertised on the streetlights. Right in front of them, there were two boards with glossy shots of Jared and Misha, and wow did they both look good. If Jensen hadn’t only just seen that photo of his alter ego and Misha at the close of a show, he would seriously have wondered how they were portraying Castiel here – but no, that poster was all Misha, wearing a glorious three-piece suit and a gleaming blue tie with golden sparks that brought out his eyes. And then the poster-Misha turned and winked at them.

Misha’s fingernails dug into his arm in earnest. “Get a grip, Ackles!”

Jensen kept walking, past the poster-Misha, and then just fixed his gaze on Jared’s back. His previous experience with the strange had been… tense and terrifying, but this – this was mind-blowing. The poster had driven home just how _bad_ Misha actually looked, how prone he had seemed to hunching over, curling in on himself, how little life there was in his expression at times, how much _older_ he looked. The elf walking at his arm wasn’t the one that had smirked down at them from the poster, not anymore. Jensen wondered if the fans saw it, too.

Misha relaxed his grip marginally as they settled into a steady pace, and suddenly, they slipped into a side-row, and were by a river. Nevermind that Jensen hadn’t been expecting a really, really broad stream in the middle of a city, build into it was the most adventurous construction he had ever seen, topped by a gleaming dome of dark blue splattered with golden stars and housing an enormous telescope. The building looked… alive, merging seamlessly into the riverscape and at the same time adorned with the wonders of the night sky in ceaseless, elegant movement.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Misha said beside him, and only then did Jensen realize that they had stopped walking.

“Yeah.” Not his most pithy reply, but really this was simply all too weird.

Jared appeared in his frame of vision, expression closed off, at odds with the awe coursing through Jensen and echoing in Misha’s voice. “Come on.”

They started walking again, rounding the front of the building until they found an entrance, and slipped inside quietly. The interior was a spacious reception area, where the attendant only nodded at Misha and Jared as they passed through. They climbed a spiral staircase and stepped off at the first landing to find themselves in a room looking out over the river, penthouse style windows and all. Once there, Misha let go of Jensen’s arm and sighed in a deep breath.

“There, you’re looking like yourself again now,” he said, sounding worn out. Or maybe it was Jensen’s imagination, the specter of the carefree and cheerful man on the poster still hanging over him.

“I have to say you make a fetching woman, Jen,” Jared said, clearly trying to pull Jensen out of his musings. He chuckled when Jensen glared at him.

“Alright, what is this place, and how can it help us figure out what’s going on?” Jensen looked about the room, finding nothing extraordinary. The rear wall was lined with books, and there were a row of writing desks pushed side by side at the window, and a small seating area with comfy looking upholstery, but nothing screamed science, or even magic.

Misha flopped down onto a chair, twisting sideways to prop his legs up on the armrest. To Jensen, Misha looked utterly exhausted as he carefully pulled the magic globe, now much less luminous, out of his pocket and rolled it between his fingers. “Sit down.”

Jensen followed the invitation, habitually patting Jared on the shoulder as he passed. He only remembered that this wasn’t the Jared he knew when the giant remained where he was, staring at him. Jensen grimaced. “Sorry, dude.”

Jared visibly shook himself. “No… it’s just… strange, having you here.”

“You’re going to stay, Jared?” Misha asked, sounding as though he already knew the answer.

Jared’s brow darkened. “Are you going to be using?”

“Of course.”

“Then you know I have to leave.”

Misha shrugged. “Fine. If you think keeping up this pretense will do anyone good.”

Jared didn’t reply; his resignation and Misha’s carelessness indicating that this was an age-old topic between them. Jared stepped up to Jensen’s chair, collected the globe from Misha and awkwardly held out his hand to Jensen.

Jensen clasped Jared’s wrist, relieved that this Jared, too, returned the gesture. He was smiling, but his eyes were sad. “It was good seeing you again, Jen. I hope Misha can get you back to where you belong – and hey, tell other me he’s lucky to have ya.”

“Thanks, man. Will I see you again later for the phone?”

Jared glanced towards Misha. “Mish?”

Misha shrugged. “No idea. Maybe I’ll be able to do it, maybe not.”

Jared patted Jensen’s shoulder. “Misha will know where to find me when you need me. Make sure he doesn’t do something stupid, like climb the telescope.”

“That was _once_ , and only to rescue a cat,” Misha protested immediately, but it sounded half-hearted.

Jensen’s stomach scrunched up in worry but he summoned up a final smile for Jared, and the giant nodded towards him and Misha and left, closing the door with a soft click behind him.

Jensen rounded on Misha, trying to keep the side of him that felt closest to Dean under wraps. He knew from experience that exploding on Misha was going to get him nowhere, especially not when Misha was feeling vulnerable. “Alright, what was that about?”

“Okay.” Misha pulled his feet under himself. “I’m going to give you an introduction to our world, and I trust you can think for yourself. But whatever you think, you’re not going to stop me. I swore I would do everything to get you back, so I’m going to try.”

“Sounds ominous,” Jensen said, trying and failing to lighten the mood.

Misha simply ignored him. “There are different types of magic here. There is Jared and, once, Jen’s which is blunt and straightforward. A tool. They wield it like a tool, and it does what they need it to do. That’s the wizard blood in them. Then there’s people like me”, he waved his hand at his ears, “who have pixy or elf or Fae ancestry. Our magic is… less precise. It doesn’t need as much conscious effort, it is more of a… natural talent, let’s say. For Jared, magic is a skill; for me… it’s a way of being. It’s impossible for us to survive without using magic on a regular basis, and in theater, I get to do that, even if I have to channel my magic through globes so it remains controllable.” Misha paused, falling silent for so long that Jensen wondered if he was going to continue at all. “It, uh, limits my magic,” Misha said, eventually, his voice soft. “But to let it run free can be dangerous for those around us, so there are certain measures we take to stop that from happening.”

Jensen saw Misha swallow hard, and he wanted to reach out and offer some physical reassurance, but he refrained, unsure of how it would be received. “Measures?” he prompted instead, not able to keep the dubious tone out of his voice.

To his astonishment, Misha jumped to his feet, spreading his arms. “This is the best magically isolated room in the city. A group of friends and I set it up a couple of years ago, for people like me. It allows us to let our magic run free without endangering anyone. It’s a dream of mine to have areas like this all over the city, all over the world, but we had to start somewhere.”

“That’s awesome, Mish.”

Misha looked at him, and Jensen found the slightly unhinged twinkle in his eyes unsettling. “Yes. But the real problem are these.” Misha unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, and rolled up his sleeves.

Jensen pulled in a sharp breath, and this time, he did stand up and move closer, his hand outstretched. “Mish-?!”

There was an angry red line around Misha’s wrist, thin and jagged, with a rune-like symbol just above his pulse-point. It could have been a tattoo, if not for the inflamed appearance.

“It’s a sigil,” Misha said, “to keep our magic restrained. They do it when we are children and it starts to show whether our elven side is dominant. My mother tried to prevent them doing it to me, but you can only fake them for so long.”

There was such bitterness, such hurt in Misha’s voice, Jensen sent a prayer to whoever was listening that he would never hear anything similar in the voice of _his_ Misha – after all they had gone through, it had never been as bad as this.

Misha dropped his sleeve with a sigh. “They are necessary, in a way. Elven and Fae magic can cause chaos in highly populated areas. There are those that advocate for a less permanent solution – medications that, when taken regularly, have the same effect, but don’t cripple our power outright. But there is a long way to go yet, and in the meantime…”

Jensen caught his wrist. “Mish – can it be reversed?”

“No, but there are ways and means.” Misha shook him off and walked over to the bookshelf, scanning the volumes, until he pulled one out without hesitation. He flipped the book open, revealing it to be a fake in which a small velvety pouch was hidden. “Jared doesn’t approve, because there are, uhm…” Misha’s mouth twitched, “degenerative effects, I suppose you could say, and if they ever caught me using before a show, I’d be out in the street before I could blink. So Jared pretends he has no idea. It’s okay. I don’t blame him for it; he doesn’t know how it feels. I’ve started using more since Jen… since the accident, but not on stage, not ever.” He opened the pouch, revealing a row of neat syringes that reminded Jensen of insulin shots.

“Drugs?”

“If you mean, are they addictive, unhealthy and illegal? Yeah, they are. It’s the psychological dependence above all.” Misha picked out a syringe with sure fingers, closing the book and returning it to its place. “The drug enhances our ability to channel magic to the point where it feels as if the sigil weren’t there. You wouldn’t understand what this kind of freedom feels like, Jen. Gods, I probably sound like a junkie to you.”

Jensen gripped the backrest of his armchair tighter, trying not to let on that that was exactly what he had been thinking. “Mish…”

“It’s the only way for us to even feel our full power, because they do this.” He thrust his arm forward, the cuff slipping to reveal the sigil again. “The problem is that it enhances our ability way beyond a natural level to counteract the sigil, which can be harmful, over time. There is, in our circles, a recommended amount of monthly dosages which are considered safe – but there is very little data, as yet. At any rate, this is the only way to find out what is going on, and whether I can get you back where you came from.” Misha returned to the armchairs, folding himself up in one, the syringe held carefully in his hand.

Jensen settled down again, but the uneasy would not go away. “When I woke up here.”

Misha uncapped the syringe with his teeth. “Hmm?”

“When I woke up here, you said you had taken something.”

Misha paused, the tip of the syringe hovering over his pulse point and the center of the sigil. “Yes.”

“Did you mean this?”

“No,” Misha said, blatantly lying, and administered the shot before Jensen could do anything to interfere. “I’ll be fine, Jen.”

There wasn’t any change Jensen had come to associate with drug use through the films in his dimension. Misha didn’t exhale, didn’t relax back in his chair, didn’t do anything different. He just placed the empty shot on the table and rose, walking to the door and throwing over a bolt.

Jensen didn’t say anything, just watched, biting his lip. Misha had to be aware already that he hated this – hated Misha risking his life in any way, even if what had been done to him was abhorrent, and Jensen supposed it could be argued that this was a kind of medicinal use. He didn’t quite see yet what kind of high Misha got out of it that made him turn to it in his grief.

“If we’re in here because it’s isolated, why did I find you at the theater?” he asked instead, trying to keep his voice soft. Trying not to slip into Dean.

“I was already coming down, Jen. The comedowns are bad, sometimes. Sometimes there are hallucinations – or rather, illusions I create without meaning to. I never leave here before it’s safe. I’m not an idiot.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you were.”

Misha put his feet up on the table. “If it makes you feel better, other you didn’t like it either. He made sure I stuck to the plan, and didn’t use when we were on the circuit.” Misha rolled up his sleeves, and wiggled his fingers. “Look.”

Jensen found the room around them slipping away, until they were sitting at the edge of a cliff, a golden, fantastical forest behind them and a brilliant sunrise before them. Jensen reached out, finding that he could feel the grass, could sense the warming beams of the rising sun on his skin. He looked over to find Misha beaming at him, the way _his_ Mish did when they were on stage together, or on set, the way this one had on that photo back in his room. Despite himself, Jensen found that he was smiling back.

“Wow.”

Misha hummed, reaching into the air and plucking something like a seashell from nothing, tossing it towards Jensen. “Other-you loved these.”

The thing looked like some type of mussel, but it felt warm and a bit sticky-soft in his palm. “What do I do with it?”

“Eat it, of course.”

“But it’s not really there.”

Misha laughed, an actual, honest laugh. “You clearly haven’t been around magic.”

Jensen carefully placed the food in his mouth, finding it a very succulent fruit, something between a watermelon and a banana, with maybe a touch of coconut. It tasted like a cocktail. “’s great.”

“Yeah.” Misha lay back, spreading out lazily on the grass. “Shall we get to work?”

“How?”

Misha dropped his right arm into the grass towards Jensen, palm up. “Hold my hand?”

“Mish…”

“Not flirting, I swear.”

With a sigh, Jensen settled next to him, and laced their fingers together. “Happy?”

“Immensely.”

Above them, the morning sky began to transform. Where the morning sky had been, a starscape was spreading out, like nothing Jensen had ever seen back home, not even on the clearest night. This looked more like one of those impossible astronomical photographs, the stars bright between colorful nebulae.

“Is it real?” he asked, in a hushed voice.

Misha squeezed his hand. “Of course. I am an elf, Jen. Connecting with nature is what we do.”

“So how is this going to help us determine what happened?”

“Just give me a moment.”

The starscape shifted, rotating slowly, and Jensen tilted his head to look over at Misha. They were still lying on the grassy plateau, but the stars were all around them now, and Misha’s face was illuminated by the violet and blue glow of the nebulae just passing above them. His eyes were closed, but his face was relaxed, peaceful – certainly more at ease than Jensen had seen this Misha in a long time. If he was honest, even his own hadn’t looked this at peace with himself and the universe lately.

Of course, it all shattered when Misha jerked violently, and everything went black.


	24. Chapter 24

_~ The Impala ~_

They caught up with Cas when he dropped Claire off at the bus station in town, which took long enough for them to ditch the Impala and find a less conspicuous replacement car. Claire was clearly and obviously furious at being left behind, staring after Cas’s taillights with anger radiating from her frame.

To Sam’s astonishment, Dean pulled up by her, and rolled down his window. “Hey, short stack. If you want to go after Cas, get in now.” While Sam was still staring at his brother, completely surprised, Claire didn’t waste a moment, but grabbed her duffel and climbed into the backseat.

“Why didn’t you stop him?” she accused, pulling out the seatbelt.

“Because he didn’t friggin’ let me,” Dean grumbled, speeding after Cas until he was within sight again. “I wish he was still driving his own car, it would be much easier to keep track of!”

They were heading west, in a mostly straight line towards the Rockies, and making good time, for the most part in silence.

Sam was somewhat relieved at his brother’s willingness to go after Cas, with the Darkness still hanging over their heads. It had to be a good sign, hadn’t it? He was also glad that he couldn’t find anything overly odd in the news. Apparently, the Chaos so far was content with creating a mess of _their_ lives rather than intrude into anyone else’s, which was… better, Sam, supposed, than the end of the world. He wasn’t really sure what was going on for Dean and Cas, and why instead of bitching about Cas leaving, Dean had decided to rush after him – not that he was disagreeing with the decision, of course not. Cas was his friend, after all, and this clearly screamed “Trap!”

Sam really didn’t want to talk about Cas in front of Dean, not with what he had overheard. He wasn’t sure how the ripple effect across the multiverse worked, and what had happened to the other Cas, but he had seen _this_ Cas when they had lost Dean, and yes, maybe part of it had been Cas’s own sickness due to his failing grace, but really the damage had been deeper than that. As it had been for Sam, in a brotherly sort of way. He hadn’t thought much further, back then, hadn’t even considered angels to be prone to such feelings, but Cas clearly wasn’t as angelic anymore as he used to be. His humanness, always singling him out, had become ever more pronounced. Still, all of that didn’t mean he was going to raise the subject of an _angel_ being _in love_ with his brother with _Dean_.

Claire seemed to have no such inhibitions, but even she kept Cas’s feeling to herself. During the drive, Sam found that she was actually keenly intelligent as well as incredibly compassionate, now that her gruff exterior was starting to peel away as she got to know them, and he happily surrendered map duty to her when he switched driver with Dean after a few hours.

“Do you think he knows we’re going after him?” Claire said suddenly, after a particularly noisy rock song had been blaring out of the speakers. “He’s an angel.”

Dean stifled a yawn, huddling against the door. “I have no idea. He might, but he hasn’t tried to dodge us, so either he secretly wants us there, or he has no idea.”

“It’s not like Cas to pussyfoot around about what he wants, though,” Sam put in. “If he wanted us to come with him, don’t you think he would have just told us?”

“I don’t know how clearly he was thinking.” Dean dragged a hand over his face. “Let’s just stop talking about it, alright? I don’t want to say anything that might be a prayer.”

“You know he can sense longing, though?” Claire said, sounding vaguely teasing.

Dean glared at her. “Shut up.”

She gave a satisfied smirk and focused back on the map, while Sam stared at Cas’s headlights up ahead and wondered.

 

Dean was back at the wheel when Cas suddenly pulled off the highway, and found a motel.

“Do you think this is it?” Sam asked.

Dean just shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“So what, follow him inside? Wait in the car?”

Dean pulled into the parking lot, and the three of them watched as Cas climbed out of his own car, closing the door and locking it. He looked around briefly, then leant over, resting his hands on the car’s roof and just breathed for a while. He looked quite a bit worse for wear.

“The hell?”

“I have no idea, Dean.”

Claire snapped open her seatbelt. “If he goes inside, I’m going after him. If he sees me, I can say it was just me following him. If I don’t come back out, you should come after us, and come prepared.”

Dean gritted his teeth. He wasn’t happy about sending Claire in alone, but she was right – if Cas was just stopping here for a break, and he spotted her, that would still leave the Winchesters free to continue following him. If it were him or Sam, Cas would never buy that they had come alone. Then again, Cas might not be the problem here.

The angel in question had gathered his energies, and had begun to walk towards the motel. They needed to decide now.

“Fine! Be careful, and scream the place down if you have to.”

Claire just shot him a dark grin and headed after Cas.

She was back barely two minutes later. “He checked in. Didn’t look on edge, just really tired.”

“Which room?” Sam asked.

“Corner ground floor by the fire escape.” Claire ducked down at Dean’s driver side when the lights in the room in question came on.

From across the parked cars, they could see Cas drop his hotel key onto the bed and look around the room, before he walked over to the window and drew the curtains. A moment later, the light went off again.

“Huh,” Dean said, not very intelligently. “So is he sleeping?”

“But he’s an angel, right? He doesn’t need sleep,” Sam put in.

“I have no idea, man.” Dean waved at Claire to get back into the car. “We’ll head over to that diner and keep watch.”

 

Sam was making good use of the wifi in the diner while Dean ordered a round of burgers for all of them, his eyes clued to the motel room. Claire picked at her bun and read Sam’s phone screen over his shoulder.

“Hey, what’s that?” she said suddenly, startling Dean out of his reverie.

He looked at Sam, who was reading something on his phone, a frown appearing between his brows. “What is it?”

“A bunch of people going crazy in Iowa – traffic laws went out of the window apparently – and not just running red lights. Crazy shit, like cars on sidewalks, pedestrians on the street – a pickup drove down the stairs in a pedestrian zone.”

Dean shrugged. “So what? Doesn’t necessarily have to be our thing, and there’s nothing we can do about it now, anyway.”

Sam bobbed his head, and absentmindedly forked up a bit of salad. “I suppose.”

The _what if_ hung in the air between them – What if it was the Darkness? What if the Chaos was spreading? – until Dean waved over the waiter and ordered a second round of food.

Two burgers with fries and a pie later, their watch came to an astonishingly early end. Just as they had been discussing getting a room of their own or chancing sleeping in the car, the lights in Cas’s room flicked back on and they had barely made it to their car – Claire still carrying a paper tray of fries – when Cas came out, looking barely any less tired, and pulled out of the motel’s lot.

With Sam at the wheel, they followed Cas across the nightly country roads for another few miles west before Cas eventually started to slow down and then pulled off into an unpaved forest trail.

Sam slowed down, letting their borrowed car idle at the junction. “There’s no way he won’t notice if I follow him down there.”

“No choice, Sam. Just do it,” Dean said, fishing for his gun in glovebox. If he was honest, he would be surprised if Cas hadn’t noticed them already. Even if he couldn’t sense Dean thinking about him, he wasn’t stupid. A single car following him for miles, even after the break at the motel, had to appear suspicious. But Cas hadn’t even attempted to get rid of them so far, which Dean took to mean that he welcomed their presence, even if he couldn’t acknowledge them. That, or the summoning was wearing on him far more than he had let on, and he was actually too distracted, or tired, or both, to notice, which really didn’t bear well for any confrontation or fight.

When they came across Cas’s car, abandoned by the road, it suddenly hit Dean – the realization like a brick in his stomach. “Crap.”

“What? What’s wrong?” Sam asked, alarmed, and Claire sat upright in the backseat where she’d been slumbering.

“I remember this place. It’s where Camp Chitaqua was – in that future Zachariah sent me to.”

Sam pulled their car up beside Cas’s and turned off the engine. “Okay… that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“I have no friggin’ idea.” Dean pushed open the door and went for the trunk, where they had stashed some emergency weapons – angel blades for killing everything, and guns with iron bullets just in case they needed some distance.

Dean passed one of them to Claire, who took it without even blinking, and then Dean took the lead along the path.

It looked much different now – the trees appeared thicker, healthier, there were no broken bits of fence blocking their way, nor was there an abandoned Impala in the undergrowth. There simply were no traces of the apocalypse.

They soon found that the cabins were still there, as was the sign to the camp, but it looked less like an apocalyptic military fort than an abandoned holiday village. Some of the cabins were run down, broken and moldy, windows smashed in, other were just… empty. There was no wire fence, but that didn’t make the place more inviting. Somehow, even in that 2014, it had looked more alive, more like home, than it did now.

Cas was moving with caution between the buildings, and Dean directed the others around the perimeter, keeping the angel in sight. He hadn’t drawn his blade, but Dean knew well that he could have it ready at a moment’s notice. Of course, when Cas reached the central square, all hell broke loose.  


	25. Chapter 25

_~ Vancouver ~_

Misha only just managed to catch the angel before he banged his head on the desk. He lowered the unconscious form to the ground carefully – jeez, was he really that heavy? Cas felt hot to the touch, though Misha had frankly no idea what an angel in his vessel was supposed to feel like – at any rate, that _thing_ on his arm couldn’t be normal.

“What is this thing?” he asked Dean, who was just hovering, as if he had no idea how to help, but whose expression now closed off even as he crossed his arms. The gun in the tie holster was still freaking Misha out a bit, but this was _Dean_ , and if anyone knew him better than Cas, it was Misha – and perhaps Sam, but Jared wasn’t here, and this Dean hadn’t seen a Sam in years. Damn, Misha was supposed to check in with Jared – and what could he even tell the guy? _Hey, I was just talking with Jen on the phone – who isn’t dead, by the way, just in another universe – and if you come over, you’ll meet Dean from_ The End _and a Cas from god knows where who definitely isn’t the Cas I am playing right now, because I don’t have a brand on my arm!_

“I don’t really know. Cas says it’s the Mark of Cain or something. It’s evil, but I have no idea what it does.”

Misha sat back on his haunches. “Great. Let’s get him to bed for now.”

Dean just shouldered past him, lifting the unconscious Cas into a fireman’s carry with a huff and heading back towards the bedroom they had come from. Misha would have preferred to put Cas in the guest room rather than the bed he shared with Jensen, but he had no idea which state the rest of the house was in considering the universe was trying to mess with him. He should probably give Jared a ring, just to see whether he could take some time out and get some groceries – but then again, such mundane considerations were hardly appropriate at times like these. Jared might even understand. After all, he had lived through the _Incident_ as much as Jensen had.

“Dude’s heavy,” Dean grumbled as he dropped the angel on the wrinkled sheets, where he lay just as still as in back in the kitchen, not even twitching.

“What, and your Cas isn’t?” Misha asked, stuffing a pillow under Cas’s head. If only there had been some sign of life other than the small puffs of breath he could feel on the back of his hand. He tossed Dean the other pillow. “Elevate his legs.”

Dean scowled, but did as he was asked. “Not anymore. Besides, I’ve better things to do than to carry his sorry ass around.”

“For that you’ve been kicking up quite a fuss to get back to him,” Misha said, making the statement sound innocuous when it really wasn’t.

Dean shot him a thunderous look. “Now what?”

“Now, you are going to tell me everything you know about this Cas – and this Mark – while we wait for him to come round.”


	26. Chapter 26

_~ Camp Chitaqua ~_

Cas woke up to a cacophony of noise, penetrating and piercing, and shattering the haze of sleep and drugs. He had taken something to help him sleep after his encounter the day before, and well… he didn’t really do hangovers anymore, but this was about as close as he ever got. He rolled onto his back with a groan, regretting the movement as his wings reminded him of their non-presence.

The noise was screams. And there was Chuck, banging at his door.

“Cas, for fuck’s sake!”

Cas clambered out of the bed, trying to shake off the morning aches and pains, to clear his head. Dean had been so angry with him when they figured out that he could not simply jump up in the morning. It turned out that he slept off the drugs at night, no matter what and how much he took, and that the pain was actually just this far from rendering him into a sobbing and screaming mess and even the movement to get his pills was too much. It didn’t fit with Dean’s _always ready_ philosophy and Cas was heartily sorry for that, but what the hell did Dean expect him to do about it?

At least, he had himself so far under control that he took his gun, even though there was no sound of gunfire – no fight, then – and bypassed the pills in favor of reaching the door with as much speed as he could summon up. “What the fuck, Chuck?” he said, throwing back the bolt –

Chuck didn’t even need to answer. He just stepped aside, a look of panic on his face, and there it was. Slap-bang in the middle of the Camp was a swirling blackness, something like a cloud, but with sharp jagged edges emerging and disappearing again. It made Cas’s skin crawl, and nudged at something in his memory, something just sitting at the tip of his tongue…

The screams had been awakening inhabitants, just heading out to the tent for breakfast – or what passed for breakfast these days, anyway – and had by now brought the people on guard duty. Which also meant the perimeter wasn’t guarded.

Cas brushed past Chuck, fumbling his shirt close, and stepped up to the railing in front of his hut, leaning heavily against it for support and hoping that no one would notice. Not that he gave a fuck what they all thought of him, but if he was to play fearless leader, he couldn’t afford appearing fragile. Hell, if this was his garrison in Heaven, he wouldn’t even show himself in his current state.

“Hey – back to your posts!”

The guards, to their credit, snapped to attention at his call, and hurried back where they had come from, but the others still stood around the blackness, whispering. Humans – always too curious, always stupid enough to stand around a threatening black cloud rather than run in the opposite direction. Then again, maybe the thing triggered some left-over angelic reflex in him.

“Chuck,” he said, turning to the ex-prophet still lingering at his side. “What does it look like to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The thing down there. What does it look like?”

Chuck’s eyebrows shot up. “Cas, it’s… It looks like an angel. A jet-black statue of an angel. Do you think Lucifer…”

“What?” Cas turned back towards the blackness, but there was no statue. There was only darkness so revolting it made demon smoke look downright pleasant. Demons, at least, had once been God’s creations. This thing had never been touched by His light, and frankly, Cas didn’t give a fuck anymore what God had done – or at least he tried not to give a fuck – but this… was making him physically sick.

He braced himself, dragging in a sharp breath, and walked down into the courtyard. He could feel the others stare at him, and couldn’t care a bit about his probably ashen face, his messy hair, his wrongly buttoned shirt. For all that the blackness was repulsive, it was also alluring in the way that a tornado, holy fire, a black hole was.

“Cas, what is it?” Chuck, keeping pace with him.

“I don’t see a statue,” Cas said simply, not attempting to explain what he couldn’t. He stopped a good distance away from the cloud, but it didn’t seem to be spreading. Rather, it swirled and teased, pulling him in like a magnet with as much force as it repulsed him. Cas didn’t want to think about what would happen if the balance shifted, or if he should just let it.

“It’s not Lucifer,” he told Chuck. “Get those people back to their business, and tell them to stay clear. Meet me in the cabin after.”

Chuck shot the blackness another doubtful look, but doggedly began going around, usher away the onlookers. Cas forced himself to walk away, back to his cabin, even though his every instinct revolted against turning his back to the thing. He left the door open, going straight for his pain meds. Swallowing them dry, he moved into the bathroom – and that was when recognition hit him. The Darkness had arrived. It had become manifest.


	27. Chapter 27

_~ The Impala ~_

There was an enormous bang, a shockwave thundering over the camp and forcing the three of them flat on their stomachs. Dean tasted dirt, refusing to think about what might be crawling around the forest floor, and refusing to worry what had happened to Cas, who had been so much closer.

The silence that fell after was deafening.

Dean tentatively pushed himself up on his elbows, dislodging little twigs and leaves that had rained down on them. “Sammy? Claire?”

“We’re good,” Sam said, to his left, and Dean rolled up onto his heels, shuffling around. They had had some cover from the trees and the cabins, but really there didn’t seem to be much damage. The buildings were still standing, even had retained their window panes where there were still some left, and the only thing that looked like it had been disturbed at all was the dry dirt and leaves scattered over the campside.

Cas was no longer in sight, but that didn’t have to mean anything. They’d seen worse. Dean inhaled against the knot in his throat. “Where did Cas go?”

Sam just shook his head, pulling Claire up into a grouch beside Dean. “Didn’t see.”

“Guys…” Claire said, pointing.

Dean followed her outstretched hand with his eyes, spotting movement at the rear of the camp, but unable to quite make it out. Slowly, he inched forward, circling around, gripping the angel blade tight.

It wasn’t Cas – or rather, it wasn’t only Cas. As if they hadn’t had enough problems.

Cas was on his hands and knees on the ground, obviously having been knocked about by the blast much as they had, but now he was surrounded by a circle of tightly woven sigils. His blade was in the hand of the person standing over him, elegant turquoise dress belying her dangerousness. Rowena paced around the circle, toying with blade and talking, but her words were too low to carry. Cas didn’t do much but follow her with his eyes.

“Should have killed her when we had the chance,” Dean hissed, addressing no one in particular.

“She’s outnumbered – should we…?”

Dean closed his hand around Claire’s arm. “No. You don’t know her. She’s got some serious mojo, and besides, she would have that blade in Cas before we could blink.”

“But she could kill him!”

“If she’d wanted to do that, she’d have done it already,” Dean said, but he couldn’t help doubting. Rowena could mean nothing good for any of them, and he didn’t even know how she had even gotten away. There had been no time to talk about any of the shit that had gone down before the Darkness, and if something happened to Cas now, Dean would never forgive himself. Yes, some part of him was still roiling with resentment at the fact that Cas had gone off on his own, _again_ , that he had left right when Dean was sharing his feelings, but the memory of their kiss was a powerful reminder that this wasn’t what he was really feeling.

If only he could hear what the witch was saying. If only Cas would get up off his knees.

 

Castiel hadn’t had any expectations about his summoner. There were more people than he cared to count that had the knowledge for summoning angels, most prominently among them the higher-ranking demons and fellow angels, but in the wake of the aborted apocalypse and falling of the angels, he was sure that there were more than just the Winchesters in the hunter community who knew how.

Still, the summons had been for him personally, and that narrowed the field down quite a bit. Once he had left the bunker, he knew his siblings weren’t behind it. They would have no problem localizing him once he had left the safety of the bunker’s warding, and there would have been no need for him to travel across the country. His vessel hadn’t retained the protective tattoo when he had reclaimed his own grace, and he hadn’t attempted to hide himself.

But no angel had come to find him, and the pull of the summoning never lessened, not even after he had been on the road for hours and hours. Castiel had expected the pull to fade into the background with time – all summoning spells eventually faded out – but this one proved to be quite persistent, and quite forceful. With the effects of the Darkness pressing against his grace, he had found it exhausting to the point where he had been forced to narrow his focus to his immediate vicinity and attempt to arrive at the destination as quickly as he could.

He could sense her as soon as he arrived at the campsite, and immediately drew his sword. Rowena had considerable power, and while her spell hadn’t been able to overwhelm him as it would have a human host, its effects and the Darkness’s attack had rendered him insensible and left a gap in his memory. The spell’s instructions had been clear – kill Crowley – and Cas couldn’t remember if he had ever broken out of it. The first thing he remembered after the spell had overwritten his conscious thought was waking up in the Bunker.

He hadn’t expected a witch to be able to control him like Rowena had – powerful as she might be, she was only human – but there had been so little left of his grace that it took much longer to recover, and killing Crowley hadn’t been an instruction entirely anathema to his being. Crowley, though he had often allied himself with the Winchesters, had wronged them more times than Castiel could count, and on Dean’s account alone he had sworn to kill the demon when he got the chance. He wasn’t sure if he had succeeded, but he assumed that Sam would have mentioned Crowley’s fate if his body had been there when he came to find Cas. In all likelihood, then, the demon was still alive and lying low somewhere. Doubtlessly, they would cross paths again.

Rowena, however, was an immediate threat. Castiel should not have allowed her to study him as he had, but she needed to be watched, and yes, he had underestimated her resourcefulness. Her powers were considerable, and she had amassed knowledge over centuries. With the Chaos and the force of her summoning weakening him, he would have to proceed with all due caution. However, Castiel knew it would be futile to conceal his presence – if he had noticed her, then so had she.

He moved between the buildings, their arrangement reminding him of Chuck’s narration in the Winchester Gospels he had just read at Claire’s behest. It was possible, he supposed, that this was the same camp, but he didn’t have time to muse on that. Rowena hadn’t moved, her soul, twisted and distorted by her unnaturally prolonged life, the natural red intermingled with the black stain of the Devil’s art, practiced over centuries. Once, when she was young, Castiel thought, her soul might have been beautiful, but he couldn’t mourn that soul if Rowena’s choices had made her what she was now – a woman capable of killing the only thing she loved. For once, Cas was sure he actually understood the meaning of that.

She was waiting for him across the central square, but as soon as Castiel set foot into the open area, he was ceased by the power of her magic – a preset trap – and for a moment, lost himself in a disorientating swirl. When he came to, he found himself on his hands and knees, his angel blade gone, and his grace restrained by a tightly woven net of sigils. He could see the sigils in the ground before him, gleaming slightly, but any effort to untangle the spellwork was futile. This was very careful work, as effective as any circle of holy fire, if not more so. While there was no physical net thrown over him, Cas could still feel the pressure, his wings, useless at any rate in their current state, hopelessly entangled.

“Castiel.”

Glancing up at Rowena cost him more energy than he liked to admit. He had nothing to say to this woman. Sam and Dean would probably want to kill her, but Castiel couldn’t help pitying her, in the same abstract way his angelic self had pitied the souls he had found in Hell when he had come for Dean. Some deserved Hell, but it was often those that became something so much worse in the demons’ hands. Where a righteous soul, like Dean’s, turned to torturing out of despair, and were punished by it as much as by being tortured, the damned where the ones who found pure enjoyment in it. Even Crowley, for his rise in power, had been nothing in comparison to the likes of Alastair. Rowena, of course, had managed to evade Hell so far, had managed to keep herself alive. She was still human, in a way, but already as damned as the worst of the demons. What had happened to the young woman with the red hair Cas had seen in her memories to turn her towards the dark arts and towards utter cruelty?

“Why isn’t my son dead?” Rowena continued, twirling Cas’s angel blade, and slowly pacing around him.

Cas let out an involuntary groan as he felt the effect of her doing – she wasn’t just pacing, even as she was speaking, she was weaving her spell tighter around him. Something tickled at the back of his mind, a flicker of hope that Dean, as always, hadn’t listened – only to be snuffed out by the Darkness’s influence. Cas’s arms started to tremble.

Rowena was behind him now, but he didn’t have the strength to fight her spell and turn around. “Well?”

“Your spell must have failed,” Cas said, knowing that bravado would get him nowhere. Rowena was ensnaring him – while her previous spell had overridden his mind, this one was binding his body – his true form as much as his vessel. Whatever she wanted from him, it wasn’t his death, and it was nothing good. There was nothing he could do to fight her off, not without his blade, and that was well out of his reach. He needed help, but prayers weren’t for angels – the only one who would have listened, his Father, no longer answered to any of them, though Cas had tried, had never really given up trying. Not that he would admit as much to anyone, not even Dean, who, despite his insistence that he didn’t _believe_ , didn’t _pray_ , used to do both so frequently when it came to Cas.

“My spell didn’t fail,” Rowena said, deceptively calm and pleasant. “There is something here. I can sense it. Something that appeared as soon as I said that spell. What’s going on, angel?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Of course he knew very well – the Darkness had emerged as soon as the Mark had been vanquished. It was worrying that Rowena, human for all her powers, should be able to sense it when it was still contained within him and Dean. If it had gotten loose… if it had left them, then there was need for him to call Hannah. There was nothing any of them could do to stop it. Whatever slim chance there was that Gabriel was still alive, he had not shown himself even after Metatron’s fall, and Cas had no hope that he would be in a position to help. And as for Metatron, he was human now, and had never really been an archangel before at any rate. If the Darkness had begun to overwhelm the world, the end had well and truly come, not just for humanity, but for Hell and Heaven as well. The Darkness had been at the beginning of everything, and it would be the end of it.

Rowena completed her circle, and Castiel collapsed under the weight of the completed binding spell. There was nothing to see, but he could feel the chains digging into his wings, pinning them down, his grace hopeless fluttering inside the vessel over which he was rapidly losing all control.

“What, no reply?”

Cas shuddered, trying to keep his human eyes open as his angelic sense started to dim.

“Well, you are going to give me the information I want, and you are going to kill Crowley for me. You might have been the Winchesters’ pet, but now you are mine, and who knows, you might find I treat you better.”

Suddenly, there was a commotion to their right, but before Castiel could glance towards it, Rowena had already flung out her arm, a wall of fire shooting up around them. Cas could hear shouting – was that Claire?

“Cavalry’s here, so we got to leave.” Rowena stepped into the circle of sigils, and sliced her hand on his sword. “So long.”

Cas didn’t know where he found the energy, the strength, the motivation, even the hope that it might work, but he flung out what little control he still had and reached out, to Claire and to Dean, because Claire had the potential to be his vessel, she could understand his true voice, and Dean – Dean…

 

Claire had started sprinting as soon as Castiel collapsed fully to the ground, and Dean wasn’t far behind her, knowing that Sam would follow them. It was a ridiculous attempt, foolhardy and reckless, but Dean wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. This was Cas, and without Cas, they had fuck all of a chance at beating the Darkness. This was _Cas_ , who had stood in the Bunker and kissed him not 24 hours ago, _Cas_ , who even with the Chaos, even after all Dean had done to him, had still forgiven him.

Rowena heard them, of course, and the sudden searing heat of a wall of fire caused Dean to stumble back, tripping over Claire with a curse as they both tumbled to the ground.

“Dean!” Sam called, not far behind them, and then at their side.

“Shit!” Dean scrambled to his feet. “Sam, get off, I’m fine – find a way around!” But he had barely taken a step before _something_ thundered straight into his head, knocking out his breath and whitening out his vision. Distantly, he heard Claire gasp and Sam shout, then everything went dark.


	28. Chapter 28

_~ Terris Concordae ~_

Jensen clung to Misha’s hand in the blackness, not sure what to do, how to react. He couldn’t see a thing, could no longer feel the grass under his back, the only thing solid was Misha’s hand.

“Mish?” His voice sounded odd, muffled, distorted somehow. “Mish, please, what’s happening?” He brushed his thumb over Misha’s knuckles, a familiar gesture of comfort, even if this wasn’t _his_ Misha. He wished he could just call him, even if… even if this was to say goodbye.

Then, all of a suddenly, the elf at his side breathed harshly, and the blackness dissipated. They found themselves back in the observatory, lying side by side on the floor.

Neither of them moved.

Misha’s breathing was ragged, and he was clinging to Jensen’s hand as if it were the only thing that felt real – and perhaps it was, Jensen certainly couldn’t help feeling that way. How could he trust his surroundings here, where a bit of magic could transport them so far away and then plunge them into darkness the next moment.

“Jen…” Misha’s voice cracked, and he rolled to his side, curling into Jensen, their hands still clasped tight.

Jensen wasn’t entirely comfortable with this Misha nestled so closely against him, the strands of his hair tickling his chin, and the ears peeking out between them a constant reminder of why this wasn’t a good idea – but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of Misha’s hand, or to push the shaking elf away.

“Hey,” he said instead, softly, brushing his free hand through Misha’s hair. “Is it alright now?”

Misha didn’t relax under the caress, but drew in a shaky breath. “You don’t understand. That wasn’t me, that wasn’t… I didn’t do that.” He twisted, peering up at Jensen, and there were tears glistening on his cheekbones, golden spots still dancing in his eyes. “I went to see what caused you to be here. And that was it.”

“What, just darkness?” Jensen smiled despite himself. “That doesn’t sound very likely, Mish.”

“No.” Misha pushed himself up until he was sitting cross-legged, threading his fingers through Jensen’s and fixing his gaze on their joined hands. “You couldn’t feel it. It wasn’t just darkness, Jen. It was… nothingness. Chaos. Something where nothing can exist or survive. Darkness.” He paused, locking his gaze with Jensen’s. “It was terrifying.”

Jensen propped himself up on his elbows. “Mish, literal nothingness doesn’t exist. There’s no such thing.” He untangled their hands, disappointed. “You had a bad trip.”

Misha shoved against him and got to his feet, his expression closing off. “Fine! I know I’m not _him_ , okay, but I’m not lying! I’ve never lied to you, Jensen!”

“That’s…” That was actually true. His Misha might have hesitated to tell him some things originally, but Jensen couldn’t remember a single time that Misha had ever outright lied to his face. Dissembled, pretended, maybe, _acted_ , but never just _lied_.

“It’s true and you know it,” Misha said, folding his arms around himself. “So unless you have a better explanation for why you are here, you might as well believe me. This,” he waved his hand at the bookshelf, ”is not a hallucinogenic. It allows me to create things, to see things I can’t with the sigil in place because it limits me. This - it’s not uncontrolled. It gives me the control _back_.”

Jensen sat up, holding Misha’s gaze. He didn’t have an explanation, of course, but he had hoped it would somehow trace back to a person, anything tangible, something he could actually wrap his head around. “We never knew who did it the first time round. But we always figured there was a person behind it.” In fact, his Misha swore up and down that it had to have been Castiel, though he could never explain to Jensen why he was so sure. He supposed Misha could ask Cas, now. God, their lives were just as screwed as the Winchesters.

Elf-Misha tilted his head, eyes wide with astonishment. “ _The first time round_?”

Jensen shrugged, breaking his gaze. Making light of it as they always did because there was no point of attempting to explain. It was just Misha, Jared and him who even had a hope of understanding, and the rest of them where better off not knowing. The _Incident_ had changed things for them, though, had changed the way they read scripts, the way they thought and talked about their ‘characters’, at least between themselves. It wasn’t a surprise, really, that his Misha was taking the appearance of Dean and Cas more in stride than Jensen’s disappearance. “Yeah, well. It was nowhere near as spectacular. Just a hotel room and nothing besides it. Kinda like ‘Hotel California’.”

Elf-Misha shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Us, neither. We’re just calling it _Incident_ , now. But this…” Jensen waved his hand between them. “Shit, Mish, I don’t know what to do with this. How do you talk to nothingness?”

“You don’t,” Misha said. “I’m… uh, I can’t touch that one again, Jen. It was… it was swallowing me.” His eyes skirted away from Jensen’s face. “I’m sorry.”

Jensen swallowed down his fear and climbed to his feet. He took hold of Misha’s shoulders gently, waiting for the elf to look back at him. “Not your fault.”

Misha remained stiff, his eyes worried. “What if it is?”

“Did you bring me here? With your magic? On purpose?”

Misha blinked, breaking eye contact and dipped his head. “Not intentionally. But what if… what if this Chaos sent you here because of me? I mean, it is a bit strange that you would end up in the greenroom with me when there are literally a billion universes you could have been transported to, or even a billion places in my universe.”

Jensen rubbed Misha’s arm, another one of those gestures that came so natural, now feeling weird because _not his Misha_. “So what, the Chaos is altruistic? Stop blaming yourself, Mish. Not everything is in your control, and you can’t fix everything.”

Misha turned away from him. “It’s not altruistic,” he said, very quietly, “it’s really fucking evil, because it took you away from _him_ and put you here where I know I can’t have you!” His voice had risen, cracking on the final syllable, and Jensen could see his shoulders curling inward.

 _Oh_. Jensen had been so caught up in his own confused emotions about elf-Misha and his Misha, in the fact that this shit was happening to him _twice_ in his life when stuff like this was supposed to be fiction, in _magic_ being real, he hadn’t even thought about how this must feel for this Misha – seeing Jensen again but knowing that he belonged to someone else. Being wrenched from his grief by the very person who died.

Misha held out his hand. “Give me your phone. You should call him.”

“Mish…”

Misha’s shoulders slumped further, and he kept his face turned away. “Don’t call me that. Please don’t.”

“Alright…” Jensen pulled out his phone and passed it over. He wasn’t sure what he should say to his Misha. They didn’t exactly have an explanation, nor a solution. He could do nothing to make this okay, not for himself, and not for either Misha. And hell, his Misha had a Dean and Cas to deal with, too.

Misha cradled the phone between his palms, the blue of his eyes nearly drowning in gold as he focused on it. “What if you can’t ever go back?”

“Don’t say that.”

“We have to think about it, Jen. I meant it when I said I would do everything to get you back, you know. I would _die_ for you, Jen, but I don’t know how to fix it. I am nothing against that force. I barely touched it and almost lost myself.”

“You’re not dying for me; I won’t let that happen, Mish…a,” Jensen said, and Misha rolled his eyes at him, masks sliding back into place.

He handed him his phone back. “Try it now?”

To Jensen’s relief, the answer was immediate.

“Jen?”

“Hey, Mish.”

“Thank god.”

Jensen turned away from the elf to hide his grin, and could hear Misha sigh and turn to settle into one of the armchairs. “You’ve got to stop saying that,” he told the Misha at the other end of the line.

“Well, excuse me while I deal with a very sick angel and a very grumpy Dean Winchester!”

Jensen perked up in alarm at the exasperation in Misha’s voice. “What do you mean, a sick angel?”

Now, Misha just sounded tired. “I don’t know, Jen… He collapsed basically right after we hung up. It’s this thing on his arm – some sort of Mark. Dean says Cas told him it’s evil, but that’s about all we know. He woke up once, said a single word, and went under again. I can’t exactly call 911.”

“You’re doing great, Mish.”

Misha snorted. “You have no idea, Ackles.”

“You’re always doing great when things get crazy.”

“Only when I’m the reason they are.” There was some rustling, as if Misha were shifting his phone to the other ear. “Tell me you have some good news.”

“Uh…”

“Oh no.”

“Mish–”

“No, listen to me. Don’t you dare do anything reckless. You are not Dean Winchester, Jensen. You’re just playing him on TV. Don’t you _dare_ do something dangerous.”

“Mish-”

“I won’t let you. If… if you have to, stay. Stay with him. He needs you.”

Jensen could almost see Mish now – leaning against the wall in the hallway, the phone pressed to his ear a little too tightly, his shoulders a little too tense. Maybe there were too many emotions in his eyes right now, and he was struggling to keep them in. “Misha, I need _you_. And you’re not getting rid of me this easily.”

Misha huffed a quiet laugh. “So what’s the news?”

“Well, other Misha pulled this… trick, I don’t know, and he says the thing behind this is literal nothingness.”

“Nothingness?”

“Yeah, I know. Not very descriptive.” Jensen plucked at his shirt, just trying to give his fingers something to do. He had to look odd to the people here, with his – well, _Dean_ ’s – jeans and plaid button down. “It just looked… black. Empty. Like darkness, but much scarier.”

“Huh.”

Jensen looked up at the sudden curiosity in Misha’s voice. “What?”

“The word Cas said. I thought it was just… delirium, I guess, uh… I don’t think it was.”

“What was the word, Mish?”

“‘Darkness’.”

Jensen didn’t know how to reply to that. It seemed too much of a coincidence, but then Elf-Misha hadn’t really known how to describe the evil they had witnessed, so maybe it was just one of these weird things. On the other hand, he could practically hear the capital letter in Misha’s voice, and how big were the chances that the two screwed-up occurrences in their life right now had two different causes?

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence, Jen,” Misha said, echoing his thoughts.

“Are you alright, Mish?”

Misha gave a thready chuckle, clearly despite himself. “Smooth change of topic, Ackles.”

Jensen tightened his grip on the phone. “I mean it.”  

“I’m exhausted”, Misha sighed, “I was in the hospital, Jen. I should have said something earlier, but I was just so relieved-”

“Why were you in a hospital?” Jensen asked, the question coming out harsher than he had meant it to.

“Stop channeling Dean. One of these idiots in my life is quite enough right now.”

Jensen tried not to grit his teeth, because that, too, was a _Dean_ reaction. Anger was always his way of dealing with worry, not Jensen’s. “Sorry, Mish.”

“I was in the hospital because I had a panic attack on set. It must have been the time you got transported… The scene was… uh, I guess it was just too much. I ended up back in my trailer, and you were there, or I thought you were there, until Jared sat down right on top of you and you just… you gave this sad little smile and dissolved!”

“I’m here, Mish.” He could hear Misha’s voice rising in pitch, knew that the only way to reassure the other man was to keep a level head. It was how they had always worked.

“I know that now! When I woke up in the hospital, Jared told me you were dead!”

“His bedside manner was always shitty,” Jensen quipped dryly, half-heartedly, trying to take the panicky edge off Misha’s voice.

“He was… he was actually sort of compassionate and gentle about it. Jen, I’m going to send you a picture of that… Mark on Cas’s arm, whatever it is. See if other me can make something of it?”

Jensen didn’t want to hang up on Misha, but he agreed it might be a good idea, so he hummed his agreement, and listened to the sounds of Misha fiddling with his phone and talking to Dean in the background before his device dinged with a new text and Misha was back on the line. “That should do it. Dean says the inflammation wasn’t there when Cas showed him the Mark earlier, so I’m guessing something is going wrong with it – perhaps this Darkness is it.”

“Do you seriously expect me to hang up?”

“Jen…”

“What if this is it?”

There was no reply, and when Jensen lifted the phone from his ear to check the screen, the signal was gone, and only the new text message was waiting for him.


	29. Chapter 29

_~ The Impala ~_

When Dean came to, they were still in the same spot, and Sam was crouching over him. The wall of fire Rowena had conjured up from nowhere was gone, but –

“Son of a bitch.” Dean blinked against the sky, trying to make sense of the mess in his head.

“Dean? Are you alright?”

Dean waved Sam’s hand off, sitting up, and found Claire sitting pacing the camp’s central square, though she paused to look back at him, and nodded.

“Dean?”

“I’m fine – holy shit, Sammy, I didn’t know he could do this!”

Sam frowned, confused. “Do? Do what?”

“Don’t you feel this?”

“What?”

Claire stepped to their side. “Like he’s in your head, somehow. Right? It’s a bit how it feels like to be a vessel, but… it’s more like we have access to him than he to us.”

Dean waved a hand at her. “That! I had no idea Cas could do that!”

“He didn’t do anything to me,” Sam said, “you just dropped unconscious! I thought it was Rowena’s spell, but then Claire woke up and that makes sense, because she can be Cas’s vessel, but you…”

Dean climbed to his feet. He could remember his first encounter with Cas, how he had been unable to understand the angel’s true voice, despite the fact that he was an archangel’s vessel, and the Righteous Man. How surprised Cas had been at that after he had found a vessel in Jimmy. Cas and him both had changed a lot since then, and their relationship had evolved, to whatever the hell they were now, but that shouldn’t have changed the fact that he wasn’t compatible with Cas-the-angel, not like Claire. And if he was, why hadn’t Cas reached out to all of them? After all, Sam was as much a vessel as he was.

He didn’t voice any of these thoughts. “It feels like he’s asleep – unconscious.”

Claire nodded. “I think the witch knocked him out.”

Sam looked between them, one eyebrow raised skeptically, then asked Claire, “Did you find anything?”

“No, it’s all gone. I guess the sigils dissolved when they were used.”

“She hasn’t taken him far,” Dean said, and was absolutely convinced it was true before he could even pinpoint that he couldn’t – shouldn’t – know that. “We go find a motel, hunker down until Cas wakes up and can tell us what to do.”

They found a hotel by nightfall, getting a twin with an additional pull-out couch because Dean didn’t want to leave Claire without supervision. What if Cas suddenly decided that Dean wasn’t worth it, wasn’t worth this sharing of sensation, whatever it was, what if they weren’t compatible after all… Claire, though – Claire was a vessel of Jimmy’s bloodline, and Cas felt connected to her. And most importantly, the Darkness wasn’t messing with their relationship.

Sam busied himself with his laptop, but his surprised exclamation came at the very same moment as Dean flicked on the TV to a news channel reporting of a mass divorce in some backwater town in Kansas.

“Huh,” Sam said, “I was just reading that. The whole town got divorced on the same day. Couples who were together for years, swearing up and down that they hated each other.”

“It’s weird,” Claire said, looking at the TV and the queue forming in front of the registrar.

“Do you think it’s our kind of weird? I mean people go crazy all the time.”

Sam cocked his head at Dean. “Really? Dean, maybe once is a coincidence, but two events of mass chaos within twenty-four hours?”

Dean fought down the urge to punch something. “But me and Cas haven’t given up yet. Why would the Darkness be spreading if we’re still here? Besides, Cas thinks the Darkness is much worse than the Apocalypse. This doesn’t look worse, it looks lame. Even yesterday’s traffic thing was more exciting.”

“Maybe it’s because you and Cas are still there. Maybe it can’t do much yet. Maybe it _is_ a coincidence. I don’t know, Dean! This is not like any of the monsters we’ve hunted, this is not even like the Mark – there is literally nothing. No lore, no anything. This thing has Cas stumped – _Cas_ , who is millennia old!”

Dean whipped his hand up. “Sam, shut up for a moment!”

**** 

Cas woke up in a fresh ring of sigils, cleverly interwoven spells to emulate the effect of holy fire. There was additional spellwork edged into the walls of what appeared to be an abandoned underground club. They kept his wings pinned and limited his strength – not that he could have moved much with his hands shackled above his head and his feet trapped in the same binding spell Rowena had used on him before. Cas had no idea whether his last ditch gambit had worked – with his grace so restrained, he couldn’t sense the… well, he supposed it could be called a feedback echo, of the bond he had forged between him and Dean and Claire. He would know when they came to find him, and they both would, Cas was sure. Because of the Darkness, he might have no faith left in Dean’s care for him or his righteousness but Dean _loved_ , and after their kiss, Castiel was sure that the longing he had always felt was not just longing for a friend and companion.

“Hello, angel,” Rowena said from behind him, and Cas jolted despite himself, rattling the sigil-edged chains that held his hands. With his grace restrained, he hadn’t sensed her approach, couldn’t see her soul. With a purely human gaze, she didn’t look evil, but Cas knew not to trust appearances, especially not if his conversational partner was wielding an angel blade.

Rowena settled down in a bar chair facing him, the flickering neon lights catching in her hair. “Do you like the accommodations? It’s a wee bit old-fashioned, but this used to be a witch’s club before your precious Men of Letters eradicated the Grand Coven. Then it was a… more adult club for a while. I made good use of their equipment.” She nodded up to the chains. “It has served me well as a base.”

“I have no affiliation with the Men of Letters,” Castiel said, surprised to find his voice perfectly steady despite feeling so depleted.

“The Winchesters! They are all that’s left!” Rowena picked at the tip of his blade. “I would have been happy as a Queen of Hell. But your Winchesters have my son so wrapped around their little fingers that he couldn’t see how great of a team we would make!”

“You hate Crowley,” Cas said.

“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t rule let Fergus rule beside me if he manned up! He is my son, after all.”

“That means nothing to you.” Cas didn’t understand why Rowena insisted on lying to him, insisted on talking to him at all. He had seen into her mind, and he knew her motivations and thoughts. She had no love for Crowley, no respect or any sort of regard. She only wanted him dead.

“Where is he, angel?”

“I have no idea,” Cas replied, truthfully. His head felt too heavy, and it was tempting to try and rest it against his arms, or just let it hang, but he didn’t want to give Rowena the satisfaction of knowing that she had reduced him to human weakness by spells of her own invention.

Rowena hummed, sounding incredulous, but she didn’t pursue the point. “I figured it out. That thing I can sense. It’s because the Mark is gone, isn’t it? The Book of the Damned was a bit sketchy on the whole thing. ‘The Darkness’?”

It was perhaps testimony to Cas’s improved communication skills that he could hear the mocking quotation marks in Rowena’s voice even though she didn’t execute them. “There is no information on the Darkness. Whatever there was has been lost with the beings who first fought it. It is nothing to be trifled with, Rowena.”

“Is that what the Winchesters are doing? Trifle with it?”

Cas met her gaze squarely. “We are trying to contain it.”

“Oh, it is ‘we’ now, is it? Sweetheart, you aren’t doing a very good job. I can see it all around you, and the Winchesters don’t care for anyone but themselves.”

Cas steeled himself for the reply. “I don’t believe you.” He wasn’t lying precisely – but the fact was that the Chaos had shaken his trust in Dean, and he couldn’t be certain what was his own judgment and what was the pressing influence of that ancient force of evil. Dean and Sam were human. By their very nature, they were selfish beings, subject to evolution and driven by an incessant need to _survive_. For Dean and Sam, ‘survival’ had always included each other, and Cas knew he couldn’t hope to compete with it, nor did he have any wish to. It was remarkable that humans were capable of looking beyond themselves in their considerations, and he only wished that, in a small way, the Winchesters cared, Dean cared. He didn’t need to be first priority, didn’t want to be – but Dean had saved him, time and again, and Cas would be with him till the end of time, come what may.

“Then you are even more of a fool than I thought. “ Rowena placed the blade on the bar, depositing it where it would taunt him, just out of reach. “We could work well together, you know.”

“I won’t work for you.”

“At least I would show you the respect you deserve.”

“You have never showed anyone respect, and I am not your pet.”

Rowena sighed, pushing herself to her feet. “You will still kill Fergus for me, and then you will kill the Winchesters. Just give it time.”

It took a large amount of Castiel’s restraint not to yank on his chains in frustration. “Time is not a luxury any of us have! If it isn’t stopped, the Darkness will consume this world.”

But Rowena wouldn’t be deterred. She walked past him, and a door shut behind her.

It was very silent in the old club, no sounds from outside filtering in – in all probability, it had been sound-proved, either by the witches who had once gathered here, or by the owners of the club that had taken over the rooms later. Under normal circumstances, sound-proofing wouldn’t have made much of a difference to Castiel, but now, no matter how desperately he wished he could feel Dean, at least, even if Dean couldn’t feel him, there was nothing.

**** 

“Dean!”

Sam’s hand on his shoulders jerked Dean back into the presence, and he found Claire looking at him knowingly from behind Sam’s shoulder. “Sorry, must’ve spaced out…”

“It hits you more because you’re not a vessel,” Claire said, with conviction, and added, more for Sam’s benefit than anything else, “Cas is awake.”

Dean nodded, emphatically. “Yes. He’s not far, as I said. Some sort of underground club thing. Probably illegal, abandoned now.”

“It was a sex club,” Claire said, with a smirk.

Dean glared at her. “Yes. That’s what Rowena says, anyway. Can we find out if there were any subterranean clubs that were closed in the last two decades or so?”

Sam looked flabbergasted, but he pulled himself to his feet and went back to his laptop. “Sure. Give me a moment.”


	30. Chapter 30

_~ Vancouver ~_

Misha returned from his phone conversation in the hallway with a crestfallen expression that smoothed over as soon as he stepped back into the bedroom and turned to look at Dean. It was freaky, how easily the guy could hide pain behind a neutral expression, behind even a smile or a smirk or an inappropriate joke. Dean couldn’t exactly say that it contributed to his trust in him. With his Cas, at least things were straightforward, even if a grin from his Cas was just as much an expression of pain.

“What did he say?”

Misha sighed, his gaze settling on the unconscious angel. “I sent him the picture, but nothing yet. We got cut off again.”

“He didn’t wake up,” Dean said, as if it weren’t obvious. After Cas had grabbed Misha and hissed ‘darkness’ into his ear, he had been out like a light. It wasn’t exactly odd to Dean, seeing Cas unconscious, not anymore anyway – but this Cas was supposed to be an angel, or at least something of the sort. Angels didn’t sleep.

And who knew what his Cas was doing back home. The camp didn’t really trust him – or trusted him only by proxy because Dean did, and Dean was gone now. He didn’t even have the luxury of calling. Then again, he knew he wouldn’t have the strength to say goodbye.

“Great. More waiting, then,” he said, trying to bury his worries as deep as they would go.

“I suppose so, yes,” Misha agreed, leaning against the wall. “I’m not… uh, generally impatient, let’s say, but this is frustrating.”

Dean pulled out his gun, checking the clip. It was weird, not being in constant motion. For the past years, the only moment where he allowed himself to breathe was when he crawled into bed with Cas. Other than that, there were always things to do. Supply runs, heists, research, maps to update, interrogations, staff meetings, guard duty to organize… He didn’t like having space the think.

“I wish you would put that thing away,” Misha said, suddenly.

Dean blinked up at him. “What thing?”

“The gun. I get that you need it where you’re from, but there’s no Croats here. There’s not even your regular monster, unless you count humans.”

“Wow, cynical.”

Misha offered a weak smile, his finger ghosting absentmindedly over the thin scar at his throat. “I try not to be. There is a great potential for good in humans. Not everyone allows themselves to see it.”

Dean slotted the gun back in his holster, tracing the movement of Misha’s fingers along the scar. He could recognize a nervous habit when he saw one – had been around enough trauma survivors to know what he was looking at. He’d been meaning to ask about that scar ever since he’d first spotted it. Not many ways you could get a scar right across your throat, and certainly not many you’d survive. “Where did you get that?”

Misha snatched his hand away as if he’d been stung. “What?” he asked with feigned ignorance, turning his back on Dean to open a drawer and pull out a bluish-green scarf which he slung about his neck in practiced movements. It complimented his simple shirt and jeans, and brought out his eyes, but Dean was sure that wasn’t why he’d chosen it. The scarline had disappeared behind the folds.

Dean didn’t really like the way Misha dressed, not that they had given him much space to get dressed. When him and other-Cas had burst into his bedroom, he’d been fully dressed already, something Dean had to remember was unusual – in Chitaqua, it had become the norm. No fabric or time for PJs when the world was ending. Unless he counted his Cas’s lavish dressing gown and wooly PJs, which were just part of the guy’s image nowadays. At any rate, Dean preferred his Cas’s low cut shirts and exposed collarbones. “The scar on your throat. Not many ways you’d get that.”

With the scar obscured, Misha pulled at the fabric of the scarf instead, clearly a self-placating motion. “Cas said this is not the first time our dimension was messed with, right? Well, last time someone tried to kill me. Or killed me. No one really knows. It was in the tabloids for a while. ‘Actor comes back from the dead’. I wish people would just shut up about it.”

“That why you didn’t freak when me and Cas showed up?”

Misha laughed. “I freaked! What did you expect me to do? Call the police?”

Dean shrugged. He wouldn’t have, but this wasn’t his world. “I guess.”

“Well, if you must know, I half-thought I was hallucinating. I-“

There was a distant ringing, like a doorbell. Dean tensed up out of reflex, finding that Misha had done the same.

“Stay here,” the actor said, “Stay here and don’t move, don’t say a word. I’ll get rid of whoever it is and be back in just a moment.”


	31. Chapter 31

_~ Vancouver ~_

He should have expected it, Misha supposed. Should have expected that with how bad he’d been the night before, someone would be around to check on him. Jared would make sure of that, if it wasn’t him personally at the door now. After all, Jared was one of two people who knew how bad it could get for Misha, one of the two he had trusted and talked to after the Incident, back when he still jumped at every sound and couldn’t sit in the front of a car even if he wasn’t driving by himself without checking the backseat first.

It was touching, the concern, and Misha appreciated the kindness. Of course he did. Without the guys being there for him – without them all being there for each other, he would have fallen apart _and_ be out of a job by now. Still, how could he explain to Jared that Jensen wasn’t dead, that Dean and Cas were currently in his bedroom? The giant of a man would just end up smothering him in his concern, and probably wouldn’t listen to Misha before calling emergency services. Jared was… kindhearted, but he had an impulsiveness that the Incident hadn’t tampered, and which had, in part, been responsible for his and Jensen’s original falling out. Not that Jensen hadn’t taken the blame in equal parts, when he’d finally told Misha what had actually happened. Jared had made an effort of reigning his impulsiveness in slightly, channeling it into on-set pranks instead. And Misha was fine with that, good with it, in fact. It was fun, up to a point, and most importantly, it was _distracting_. He would rather occupy his mind with Jared than with the fact that walking to his trailer still made him jumpy, as he would rather pour his heart and soul into his charity work than avoid crowds because he looked at every stranger twice now.

A glance through the peephole told him that it was, in fact, Jared standing on his doorstep, plastic bags slung over his shoulder, the beanie on his head askew. A messenger would have been easier to get rid of, but maybe Misha could make Jared understand that he’d much rather be alone – and pointedly not think of the fact that while Jensen _was_ alive, he might still lose him.

Misha pulled open the door a crack. “Hey, Jared.”

“Oh hey. You’re up. And dressed. And smiling. Huh.”

Misha rolled his eyes. “Did you come by to bring me food or stand on my doorstep like an overgrown puppy?”

Jared shuffled his feet awkwardly. How someone this large and old could still look like a little boy would always remain a mystery. “Actually, I was going to cook food for the two of us. You know, keep you company.”

“You can’t cook.” It was true. The one time they had trusted Jared to make the salad for their barbecue had… not ended well. Misha had never looked at vinegar the same way again.

“I figured it can’t be much harder than sticking to the recipe, right? Are you going to let me in?”

Misha leant against the door, letting some of the strain shine through. “I’d really rather be alone, Jared.”

Jared gave him the kicked puppy look. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He pressed his flat hand against the door and physically shoved it open.

Misha, knocked off-kilter, stumbled to regain his balance, and by the time he did, Jared had already walked past him towards the kitchen with two long strides, depositing the plastic bags on the counter. Misha hurried after him.

“Hey! Who gave you permission to invade my home?”

Jared shot him an odd look. “Look, Misha, I know you’re not well. There’s no need to pretend.”

Misha swallowed down a sigh. “Okay, how about this. Leave the food, and leave me the fuck alone.”

“I thought we were past this, Misha. You do better when you’re with people, and you know it.” Jared paused in his unpacking. “In fact, I’m gonna go and lock your bedroom door, because I know you’ll hole up in there if I’m not paying attention, and I’m not having that.”

For a man this large, Jared could be surprisingly fast, and he was past Misha before he could process that, yes, his bedroom door did lock, and apparently the universe had decided to give Jared a key in this chaos, and _Dean and Cas_ were in the bedroom.

“Wait!”

Too late. Jared shouted in surprise – first something inarticulate, then “Jensen!”

Misha rounded the corner to find a flummoxed Jared facing off against Dean, his gun drawn and pointed squarely at Jared’s forehead. At least he hadn’t fired yet.

“Don’t!” Misha pushed in between them – not that he had much hope of shielding Jared. “I know what you’re thinking, but he’s not Sam, and not Lucifer. Put the gun away!”

To his credit, Dean’s eyes flickered to Misha and he flipped on the safety, lowering the weapon. “Actors,” he grumbled, “right.”

Jared, bless him, was imitating a fish.

Misha waited until Dean’s gun was back in its holster, before fully turning around to Jared. “We need to talk, I think.” He took Jared’s elbow and steered him back towards the kitchen. Jared, thankfully, let himself be led, though he craned his head to keep looking at Dean, who followed grudgingly behind them.

 

Still gaping at Dean, Jared was surprisingly easy to convince. His eyebrows were hiding in his fringe the whole time Misha tried to give him a rundown, but he could tell the man believed him. After all, this wasn’t the first time transdimensional shit had happened to them, and hell, no one had ever been able to explain how Misha was alive, either.

“So Cas is in your bed right now. Real angel Cas,” Jared said very slowly.

“I assume he’s an angel, at least,” Misha said, looking over at Dean for confirmation.

The hunter just shrugged. “He’s something supernatural at least. Looked pretty angelic to me, but what do I know what that Mark is doing to him.”

Jared’s head jerked up. “Mark? What Mark?”

Misha pulled out his phone and showed him the snapshot, still open since his call with Jensen. “We think it contains the Darkness, but I’ll be damned if I have any idea what it is.”

“Doesn’t sound good,” Jared said, passing the phone back to him.

Misha shrugged. “I suppose not, but I haven’t the faintest idea what to do, and neither has he.” He jerked his thumb towards Dean, who frowned, but didn’t argue.

His fingers traced over edge of his gun sticking out of the holster, a nervous gesture Misha had observed on him before. “Look, I just want to go home. I don’t give a crap about any of the Mark and Darkness business, I have a devil to kill, and that comatose angel is my only hope of getting back, unless you guys have a better idea.”

“You should be more concerned about the Darkness.” Suddenly, Cas was in the door to the kitchen, leaning heavily against the frame, his face ashen and eyelids drooping.

Misha jumped forward, intending to catch the angel, whose legs looked about ready to buckle. “Cas!”

“Stand back!” Cas barked out, eyes squeezing shut.

“Oh fuck,” Dean said behind Misha, and then, “Close your eyes!”

Misha had barely closed his lids before Cas fell to his knees and exploded in a burst of light.


	32. Chapter 32

_~ The Impala ~_

The angels found him first, in the end. It seemed that Rowena’s spellwork was excellent when focused on a single being, but it wasn’t the warding necessary to keep out the garrison. Castiel wasn’t sure what brought them – whether it was the irregularity of his grace, his effort of projecting to Dean and Claire, of connecting to mere humans in a way that should only be possible between an angel and a vessel, and between members of the Heavenly Host – not that Cas had allowed himself to use and feel that connection fully ever since he had first rebelled. Even in the battle against Raphael, he had often closed himself off, hidden his desire to be on Earth, with the Winchesters, with _Dean_ when he had a battle to fight.

More likely, it was the Darkness that brought them. Cas knew that it was congealing around him, oppressive and oozing, impossible for him to sense in his current imprisoned state but there nonetheless – and growing so obvious that sensitive humans like Rowena were able to pick up on it. This increase was concerning, and if it had become noticeable enough to reach Heaven, all the more so.

Rowena was nowhere to be seen when the angels arrived, and they did so soundlessly, without announcing their presence in any way a human might be able to discern. Without his grace, Castiel couldn’t tell who they were, incased in borrowed vessels, but there was no point in attempting to fight. Rowena had taken his blade, even if he hadn’t been restrained, and he was very much outnumbered. They didn’t speak, didn’t address him, and Castiel knew they had come to deliver justice. Back when they had first ripped him from Jimmy, back when he hadn’t yet rebelled and Jimmy was still alive, they had been equally silent. Castiel had known they were coming, and he had fought them with all he had, but they had never made a sound. It was not the way of angels in that position. Castiel, for all the crimes he had committed against Heaven, was glad that he had never been forced to discipline one of the members of his garrison. It was not a pleasant task, nor an honorable one, and to speak during it was akin to blasphemy. At least, that was how it had been in the old days, when the archangels still resided in Heaven, before their Father had abandoned them. Castiel didn’t know whether Hannah had built a functioning hierarchy, whether she was even still leading Heaven – he had been too caught up in attempting to free Dean of the Mark to take much notice of the goings on. Regardless, he knew he had no right to expect friendship or leniency from his kin.

The angels moved silently around him, undoing sigils and spells, crafting their own – they were going to open a temporary portal to Heaven right there. Whatever else Hannah had achieved, she seemed to have regained control over Heaven’s borders. With the Host reunited, it would not have been a difficult task, but it would also mean that they would close the backdoor Metatron had crafted. Perhaps they had already done so. With his wings in their current state it would mean that Castiel wouldn’t be able to travel between Heaven and Earth again.

In many ways, he had counted on not being able to return, had wanted to spare Dean, and Claire, and Sam to moment of goodbye. And really, it had been a selfish desire to leave them on the promise of seeing them again, even if he had always known that, should he be forced to contact his siblings, he would have to return to Heaven. Certainly, the angels would try to convince him to, and Cas had only that one thing to bargain with. He could – and would – have fought them with all his might, if it had been just about himself. Now that Dean and him… But he could let the Darkness destroy Earth. If Hannah understood one thing, it was that the angels had been created to serve humankind and whatever fate awaited Castiel, he would have them see to that cause. It was worth whatever prize he had to pay for that assistance.

Castiel squared his shoulders when they freed him of the chains and the containment spell, feeling the control over his grace return. He knew, then, that his attempt at forging a bond had worked, could feel the urgency flooding through him from both Claire and Dean, and knew that he would have to sever the bond. When he had created it, it was for Dean to free him from Rowena, but now that his siblings had found him, he needed to keep Dean save and away.

With regret Castiel pulled his grace close, snapping the fragile connection, and silently waited under the watchful gaze of two of his brethren while the other three worked on the portal. He could see their true forms now, call each of them by their name. They were all young angels, even compared to Castiel himself, angels who had once been willing to follow him into battle against Metatron, like Hannah had – until he had chosen Dean over them. Perhaps, if he hadn’t, they would have stopped Metatron earlier. But then, Castiel doubted he would have survived the loss. Dean, however – Dean was strong. He was human, accustomed to feelings and capable of dealing with them. With Cas gone, he would be safe, and he would be able to live a full life in safety from Heaven’s interference.

Suddenly, there was a commotion upstairs. The angels stood and watched, calmly, while Cas glanced up in alarm.

Dean – of course it was Dean. Cas hadn’t thought he was this close, and Claire and Sam were with him.

He moved towards the portal, breaking the silence. “I need to speak to Heaven’s leaders. Now!”

It was sacrilege, of course, to speak in such a setting, but it was a necessity. The angel in the plumb, dark-skinned female vessel, Tadhiel, who was in command of the group, turned to face him. She said, in a quiet voice: “You know what awaits you, Castiel.”

Cas nodded his acquiescence. “I know. But the Darkness needs to be contained, and it is Heaven’s duty to do so.”

“Who are you to speak of Heaven’s duty!” another angel, Ruhiel, snapped, but a sharp look from Tadhiel had him fall silent.

“We are aware, Castiel. The Heavenly Host will do what is necessary to preserve Earth and humanity.”

Cas lowered his gaze in a silent thanks, the portal behind them flickering into life just as he could hear Dean’s hurried steps on the stairs.

“Are you ready?” Tadhiel asked, two fingers outstretched towards Cas. With a touch, she would contain Cas’s grace again, bring him back to Heaven for his punishment. It was a little akin to passing out, but Castiel knew from experience that it would only be temporary. Once in Heaven, he would be conscious for whatever punishment the Host saw fit.

He bowed his head towards her.


	33. Chapter 33

_~ Camp Chitaqua ~_

It was calling him.

Cas had done his best to ignore the dark swirling mass in the middle of the camp – really, what else could he do? There was still a devil to kill, even if Chuck was keener to get him interested in their rapidly dwindling supplies. It was getting harder to find stuff. In the early days, there had still been shops, and after that, they had looted what they could, circling around the camp. But now, three years, or was it four, on, there simply was nothing left.

All perishables were gone either way, unless they grew or hunted them themselves. Sometimes, they got lucky and caught something, but more often than not, meat was an impossibility. Even canned food was slowly going off unless they found one of those towns that had been spared, for whatever reason, only to be obliterated later like everyone else. They didn’t dare go into the towns that were still populated, ‘under government protection’, because they were chock full of trigger happy crazies. And that was just food. They had to think about hygiene products, clothes, shoes especially, ammunition, gas, and the list just went on and on. Cas was sick and tired of it all, and on top of it, a black swirly thing that manifested as statue of a dark angel to everyone but him was calling to him.

It wasn’t an audible call, of course, it wasn’t even a proper pull, just this nagging feeling constantly at the back of his neck, giving him goosebumps. Cas rubbed at the spot, willing the sensation away, but if he was going to keep that up, he was just going to end up with raw skin and no change.

And no, he wasn’t high, as Chuck had suggested. He’d only taken the bare minimum of pain pills, just so he could move around without feeling the need to scream. Though he had wanted to get buzzed, just a little more, just as much that a smile, a grin, came easy, even if it wasn’t genuine. Now, all he wanted was to sleep or cry or scream, after all, and his body seemed unable to settle on one.

He had tried to contact other-Cas. Had tried to contact anyone in that dimension, even if it meant talking to Sam. There had been no reply. Cas didn’t know whether it was because he was doing it wrong, because his grief was getting dull and familiar, no longer the sharp-edged thorn through his heart it had been. Perhaps it was because he had let himself hope that somehow _his_ Dean would be coming back to him – but he was an idiot, a fool, a sentimental moron. There was no place for hope, here.

Either way, no one had answered, and Cas couldn’t bother speculating what that meant for them, dwelling on other-Cas’s expression when he stood next to his Dean, wondering whether they had done it yet. Whether they had kissed, or whether Cas needed to become human to _get_ what his feelings for Dean really were. _He_ was, or as good as, and all the time the Darkness was still out there.

The humans had started to ignore it, crossing the yard with the usual swiftness, no longer stopping and gawking, either at it or at Cas, sitting up on the roof of his cabin with his back resolutely to it and attempting to meditate – or something.

He had no idea why the Darkness was calling to him. He hadn’t been there at the beginning, hadn’t been one of the archangels with whom his Father had banished it. He had been around when Lucifer stood up against it, when Lucifer became the light-bringer. But he had only been a Seraph, not yet a commander, not yet anything. Now, he was even less. Now, he was nothing.

He wanted to get high, really high, on something nice, something fancy, something for special occasions. He wanted to kiss Dean goodnight, and then he wanted to walk right up to it, right into the swirling cloud and see what would happen.

But Dean wasn’t there, and Cas wasn’t suicidal. As much as he had adopted self-destructive habits, as much as he hated what he had become, there was still a mission, and without Dean here, Cas was the only one who could understand the full magnitude of killing the devil. If the Darkness wanted him, it could have him, but first, it would have to return Dean. If Dean told him to face the Darkness, then so be it, and Cas would not hesitate. He had no illusions of living a long life. He would die soon, one way or another, but he would die for Dean, or in his name, at least. It was the least he could do, and it was the only point of doing anything.

Hell, the Darkness didn’t appear to be particularly threatening. It didn’t expand, didn’t move from its spot, didn’t seem to do much of anything except swirl. Cas twisted around on his perch, facing the cloud. It was worse when he was looking at it, the pull – as if the Darkness caught his eyes and wouldn’t let his gaze go. Cas couldn’t say that there was any change in its behavior, if that was even an adequate term for something that wasn’t alive, was just… nothing. He didn’t know if there was any sort of intelligence to it – if it just latched on to whatever was the easiest target, if it made choices, decisions – whether the fact that it manifested as a black angel statue for the eyes of humans meant anything at all.

“Cas?”

Cas leaned forward, looking down over the edge of the roof at Chuck, standing his ground below. “What is it?”

Chuck held out a sheet of paper, looking nervous. “I’m not much of an artist, but I figured you’d like to know what it looks like.”

Cas uncurled his legs and stretched out flat on the roof, reaching his hand down. Dean used to be able to get to him easily, but Chuck had to stretch and stand on tiptoes, the piece of paper jittering away from Cas’s grasp twice before he could clasp it. He sat back and unfolded it, the swirling black cloud a constant presence in the corner of his eye.

Chuck had downplayed his ability, even if the stick of charcoal and back of a map he had apparently used for the sketch didn’t make for the best art materials. He had depicted the statue – the Darkness – as an angel with his head bowed and arms spread, three pairs of wings rising high behind his back, curving slightly around his body, impressive but not imposing, not threatening. It wasn’t an accurate depiction of an angel’s true form – the folds obscuring his lower body too like robes rather than restless waves of grace, the angel’s multiple faces hidden in the wings – but it was close enough. If Chuck had gotten the wings right… it wasn’t an angel Cas was familiar with. Granted, his memory of his siblings’ true forms had become dull over the years he’d spent practically graceless, but he remembered the archangels. They were the only ones who had had the freedom of using all their wings for flight, symbols of power that gave them extraordinary speed and strength – no seraph had secondary wings this strong, this functional. In fact, bound to a vessel, he had been forced to retract his own secondary wings entirely into his form – in hindsight it was just as well to have just one pair of paralyzed appendages hanging off his back. But the fact remained, the black statue didn’t show any angel he was familiar with, even if one disregarded the uncharacteristic blackness. Archangels were generally bright, golden, white and red, too bright to look at even for fellow angels, and not even Lucifer had turned black with the Fall.

“Anyone you know?” Chuck piped up from below.

Cas folded the paper back up and climbed down from the roof, joining him on the ground. He handed back the paper. “No.”

Chuck looked disappointed, but then that was his normal expression around Cas these days – disappointment or pity, and Cas never knew which was worse. “So what are we going to do about it?”

Cas shrugged, letting the tension roll out of his shoulders. “What is there to do? We can’t remove it; it’s not a statue, Chuck.”

“We could try.”

“No. We are staying away from it. Any word on the supplies?”  


Of course, Cas couldn’t stay away. Chuck had probably known it, too, putting his drawing on the back of the map Cas would be forced to take to the cabin with him in the evening because it was the only one they had that marked all the Croatoan hot zones. Dean would have had his head for that – figuratively, at least – but Cas was just too tired to care. The feeling of constantly being watched made for an uncomfortable afternoon, despite the distraction, and his general lack of drug-induced buzz wasn’t helping.

He had crawled onto the bed as soon as everything was done for the night, and now was staring up at the drawing in the fading light, wondering why even though he knew that this angel did not, could not exist, and even if he did, he was gone with all the rest – why, despite all that, there was still something familiar about it. Perhaps he was going crazy. Perhaps he had, in fact, hallucinated other-Cas, and the statue was only a statue, a cruel joke of Lucifer’s in the wake of Dean’s death.

Cas had almost gotten up at that thought to walk out back and knock over the wooden cross. There was no grave; perhaps he didn’t _believe_ other-Cas that his Dean was still out there, he was still hoping, fool that he was.

Instead, he stopped at the porch, staring at the blackness, dark even in the falling night, swallowing the faint light of tallow candles the guards carried where there weren’t enough mechanically powered flashlights. Besides, most of those were rubbish for consistent light anyway, and once they’d figured out how to get a fairly steady supply of candles going, Dean had designated them emergency only. Cas didn’t carry either one often. Of the many things he had lost when his grace had faded from his control, decent night vision hadn’t been one of them.

Not that there was anything to see. The Darkness had nothing familiar about it, just reminded him faintly of demon essence. It was abhorrent, disgusting, revolting, and Cas knew that the allure it had over him was false and dangerous.

He walked out towards it, thankful that this time there was no gawking crowd. He stopped before it, closer than he’d been before, the Darkness almost lapping at his bare toes.

“What are you, and what do you want?”

There was no answer, no change. Maybe Cas would have been able to detect something with his grace still intact, but practically human, there was nothing. He didn’t even get the benefit of the illusion.

“Fuck you.” Cas stubbed his toes against the gravel, and returned to his bed. When he settled down, almost lying on top of the map, there was a name in his head. A name that wasn’t his, couldn’t be his, but it wasn’t human, and it wasn’t anyone else’s: Cassiel.


	34. Chapter 34

_~ Terris Concordae ~_

Jensen felt close to hurling the phone at the wall, but that would have solved none of his problems. You’d think playing a guy with a fucked-up life on TV would be enough, but no, the supernatural had to fuck up his own life, as well.

“Cut off?” Elf-Misha asked softly from where he had curled up in one of the armchairs facing the windows.

Hearing his voice stung, but Jensen couldn’t be angry with him, couldn’t be bitter about him being there instead of the man he’d fallen in love with. Hell, this Misha had it worse, living in a society that repressed his very existence. At least back home Misha got to be himself.

“Yeah.” Jensen flopped down beside him, flicking open the picture Misha had sent. It was a hurried close-up of Cas’s forearm: the inflammation was startling, coloring his veins in blood-poisoning purple, but still the Mark stood out starkly against it. Roughly in the shape of a seven, it was a patch of raised skin, standing out bright red and black-rimmed. It looked jagged, sort of like it had been burned onto the skin with a branding-iron. The symbol meant nothing to Jensen, but then he was no expert in the occult – he was, as Misha had so pithily put it, just playing one on TV.

He held the phone out to the elf. “He sent me this. Mean anything to you?”

Misha unfolded slightly, taking the phone and looking down at the picture. It still surprised Jensen with what ease this Misha, who hadn’t seen a phone before today, let alone digital photography, navigated the insanity that had become their life. Perhaps he wasn’t entirely wrong in that there was more than a slight touch of insanity in this Misha. Living a life of being only half of what you were born to be could not be pleasant.

“Huh.”

“Well?”

“It looks like some containment sigils I’ve seen. They tend to look deceptively simple but are actually incredibly powerful.” He tapped his wrist. “This being the prime example.”

“Containment?”

Misha hummed. “Yeah. Uh, I’d have to look it up to see what it is meant to contain.”

“I think I can make an educated guess.”

Misha looked up at him, meeting Jensen’s eyes. “The Darkness?”

So, evidently, he had listened into their conversation. Jensen swallowed the irrational wave of anger and something like… jealousy at that, and focused on the golden spots in Misha’s eyes. “Seems likely, don’t you think?”

Misha just tilted his head, directing his gaze back to the photo. “You’d be interested to know, then, that the sigil is failing.”

“What do you mean, it’s failing?”

“Whatever it’s been made to contain, these,” Misha traced his pinky along the black rims of the sigil on the photo, “are signs that the containment is failing. You can find pictures like these in our history books – or if you study medicine, I suppose. It’s what happens when the elven sigil isn’t properly executed. It’s been banned by law to let anyone but certified professionals cast the spell, but back in the day there used to be, uh… I suppose you could say there was a black market for sigils that looked authentic but would fade over the years – these were the signs of the sigil’s failing. There probably still is the black market, to be honest, but people don’t use it anymore because a failing sigil can be a deadly sickness, and you can’t exactly go to the hospital with it. The drugs are safer.”

Jensen wasn’t sure he’d agree on that, but he let it slide. “So what, whatever this thing on Cas’s arm is containing is about to break free?”

Misha was silent for too long. “I’m sorry,” he said, eventually, holding the phone out for Jensen to take back.

“How do we stop it?”

“You’d need an expert magician, or some equivalent. I don’t think it can be stopped, Jen. If it _is_ the Darkness…” Misha’s eyes were large and sad, but he didn’t refuse to meet Jensen’s gaze this time. “I’m afraid it will swallow your world.”

“I’m not going to let that happen.”

“How do you want to stop it? You’re not even there. You’re not Dean. You have no magic. I’m sorry if I come off as pessimistic, Jen, but don’t you think this might be the point where you have to realize that there’s nothing you can do?”

In that moment, Jensen hated Misha’s ability to sound perfectly sane, perfectly rational in the most inane of situations. “Get me back there, then!”

“I don’t know how! Don’t you think I want you gone? You can’t even understand how much this _hurts_!”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself!”

“Fuck you.” Misha folded his arms around himself.

Jensen refrained from throwing up his arms in frustration. He had known that Misha had the potential for being petty and irrational, but Misha also knew that, and hated how it made him act, so he rarely ever let it get the better of him. If he did, it was usually a sign he was really upset and trying not to let it show – but dammit, this wasn’t _his_ Misha! Despite knowing that the elf was just as real, Jensen couldn’t help putting the man he had left behind above him. It was probably a shitty thing to do, a horrible thing to even think, but he couldn’t help it, and right now, it just sounded like elf-Misha didn’t want him to get back.

He rose to his feet, shoving the phone back into his pocket. “I’m going to find Jared.”

Misha didn’t reply, just continued staring out of the window.

 

Jensen fumbled with the latch on the door for longer than was probably necessary, irrationally upset and angry at a guy he didn’t even really know, even if he had Misha’s face. He found his way down into the foyer without incident, thankful for the building’s simple layout and the fact that it was entirely deserted.

He hesitated at the front door, not knowing whether he could hazard walking through the streets. His clothes alone would make him stand out, and if people realized that he was a spitting image of a certain deceased musical star… Maybe he should have allowed elf-Misha to hand him the dress. There was nothing for it now. Jared was the only hope he had of ever getting back to his universe with Misha out of the picture, and he couldn't just sit around and watch the elf feel sorry for himself when his Misha might be in very real danger - even if it meant facing the fans, even if it meant causing a riot. He could just put up his collar, keep his head down, and hope that no one would look twice in his direction.

Jensen ran a hand through his hair, messing it up as much as it would go. Really, he had no idea how his counterpart had kept his hair - he'd only seen a picture of him on stage, after all - but chances were that he didn't like it all messed up. Chances were that people would not be looking for a messy-haired, _alive_ Jensen.

"Here goes nothing," Jensen breathed, and pushed through the door. He made it along the river into the side road before a rapid clatter of steps behind him made him speed up, praying that it wasn't a sign someone had recognized him as much as that someone was incidentally travelling hurriedly into the same direction. The fact that the person hadn't called out was a good sign - until Jensen was slammed around and pressed into the wall.

He had barely time to recognize Misha before the other pressed his lips hard against Jensen's. It was barely a kiss, Misha's fingers digging sharply into his shoulders and his lips barely moving against his, even as Jensen gasped his surprise. It was over as fast as it had begun, and Misha dropped his forehead heavily onto Jensen's shoulder, his breath fast from running after him, his hands still fisted into Jensen's shirt.

Jensen blinked, not really sure what had just happened.

"Fucker," Misha breathed into his shoulder.

"Huh?"

"You are an ass, and I shouldn't have done that."

Jensen ran his tongue over his lips, trying to find words, trying to understand what Misha was talking about. He could barely taste him on his lips. "Kiss me?"

"I'm not him, am I," Misha said, voice dripping with self-deprecation, "I have no right."

"Misha-"

"Shut the fuck up."

Jensen snapped his mouth shut, fingers scraping against the wall against which he was leaning. Under normal circumstances, with his Misha, this might have been a turn-on. Right now, he didn't know whether to push the other away or envelop him in a hug.

"I might be an egocentric ass, Jen, but I promised him, and I'm not going to let him down."

“Okay...”

Misha shook his head, his forehead moving uncomfortably against Jensen’s collarbone. “It’s really not. I want him back, Jen. So badly. So I’m going to do the next best thing and give you back to him.” He uncurled his hand slowly, resting it on Jensen’s heart for a moment before stepping back, and tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ears, eyes shining. “I’m not going to touch you again.”

“Mish, it’s okay…”

“It’s not fair to your alter-ego or mine. Let’s go while I still have some magic left to disguise you.”

 

Their return to the theater was a hurried one with little attention paid to a womanly gait on Jensen’s part. They kept to the small alleys, sneaking around the fans still gathered in front of the theater and in through a small backdoor. Misha was shaking by the time the small door closed behind them, but ushered Jensen along the corridor until they found themselves once more in the green room.

Jared was waiting for them. “Misha, what the fuck!”

Misha slipped past Jensen, motion all fluidity, his eyes dancing. “Sorry. No time to waste.” And then his knees buckled.

Jensen barely caught the elf, worry sparking in his gut. “Misha?”

Misha patted at him ineffectively, eyes half-closed, but clearly not happy to be so close. “Lemme go. I’m just coming down.”

Jared stepped in with a scowl, scooping Misha right off his feet and dropping him onto the sofa. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s too fucking early. You know this!”

Misha just curled up on the sofa, turning his back to the giant.

“What’s going on?” Jensen asked, finally getting a word in edgewise.

Jared turned towards him, his frown fading. He spread his arms, a picture of insecurity. “Jen. Sorry, this is really… how much…”

“There’s a reason we go to an isolated room,” Misha mumbled into the cushions. “Elven magic is really fucking hard to contain, but I couldn’t let you run off, so-“

“So he’s directed the magic inward to keep people from noticing, and it’s really dangerous,” Jared summed up, voice more dejected than angry now.

“So it’s not just, uh, ‘coming down’?”

Jared shook his head, hair falling into his eyes. “No. I should go get a globe. Stay with him?”

“Of course.”

And with that, Jared was gone, and Jensen hovered awkwardly around the sofa, not sure whether he should place a comforting hand on Misha’s shoulder or not. Curled up, Misha looked more like a sad, shivering black ball with pointed ears than a person.

“Misha…”

Misha hummed at the back of his throat.

“You’ll be fine, right?”

“’Course,” Misha mumbled, but it didn’t sound very convincing.

“Anything I can do?” Jensen cleared his throat. “I know I’m not, ah… I mean I don’t have any more right to you than you do to me, so…”

“Sing to me?”

The words stuck in Jensen’s throat. “What?” he croaked, barely getting air to speak.

Misha uncurled a little, peeking over his shoulder at Jensen. “Sing to me?”

“Mish, I’m not… I’m not a singer. I have no formal education or anything, I’m an actor, not a musical star.”

“Your voice is still the same. Just do it, Jen?”

Misha’s voice had a whiny edge, and Jensen had never been able to resist that, not even with urgency still pooling in his gut. Until Jared got back, he couldn’t do anything but wait either way, even if he was convinced that Misha was in for a disappointment. So maybe he liked singing, but the Jensen in this universe had been a musical actor, for heaven’s sake. You didn’t get to stand on that stage without having some sort of musical education.

He couldn’t remember making a conscious decision to pick a song, just tapped the rhythm out on his thigh and jumped right in, only realizing a few lines in that maybe music taste in this universe was entirely different, that maybe it was inappropriate to sing a love song to someone who had just lost a husband who was you – but it was too late, and Jensen just closed his lids and let the music take him. When the last words had slipped from his lips, he opened his eyes, finding that he had been looking up at the ceiling this whole time, and shifted his gaze down towards Misha again.

Misha had rolled over to face him while Jensen had been caught up in the music, one hand tucked under his chin and the other dangling loosely from his arm spread over his stomach. His hair was messy, but the crazy had receded from his eyes and Jensen was looking once more into the more familiar shade of blue. He was also smiling softly, his eyes roaming over Jensen’s face.

“Hey…”

“Feeling better, Mish?” Jensen rubbed the back of his neck, self-conscious. “Uh, I’m sure that was so much worse than what you’re used to.”

Misha held his gaze, shrugging awkwardly. “Nah. ‘s nice to hear you sing something other than Dean’s lines.”

Dean and singing still didn’t fit in Jensen’s mind. “God, I hope it’s at least classic rock.”

Misha chuckled, and reached out to catch Jensen’s hand before he seemed to remember what he was doing and his expression grew sad. He didn’t pull his hand away. “No, it’s mostly sappy emotional stuff. You know, with Dean having trouble expressing his feelings, so it just spills out in song.”

“Of course.”

“There’s anger, too.” Misha stared at their hands, clasped together. “There’s one with me and Dean, or Cas and Dean, that… it’s not been the same since.” He pulled his hand out of Jensen’s. “Sorry. Damn, I feel like I’m cheating on myself.”

“Misha would understand.”

“I’m sure. But it’s one thing to understand and, uh, be happy to give things a try, and another knowing that your husband is with someone like you but not you.”

Jensen cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh, Mish and I aren’t really… married… yet.”

Misha looked curious, but Jensen was saved from prying questions by the return of Jared, shoving a glass globe at Misha, who folded his hands around it immediately, filling up the glass with swirling lights.

Jared pulled a chair over and sank down in it. “Now what is going on that you couldn’t wait this out?”

“We figured out why Jensen is here, and it’s not a good thing,” Misha said, letting the orb roll around in his palm, subtly shifting his finger so it kept moving.

“Cas calls it Darkness, apparently,” Jensen put in, “and he’s been knocked out by this sigil thing on his arm, and Misha – this Misha – thinks it’s failing.”

Misha nodded towards Jared. “Show him the picture.”

Jensen dug out his phone and handed it to the giant.

Jared whistled through his teeth. “Yeah, that’s failing alright. It looks bad.”

“If it is the Darkness that brought Jensen here, we have to get him back now so he can help,” Misha said, “though I have no idea what he could possibly do against this force.”

Jared looked at him sharply then. “What have you done?”

Misha kept his gaze fixed on the orb. “What I set out to do. Figure out how Jen got here.”

Jensen looked between the two of them, puzzled at the sudden tension in the air. “Hang on, I feel like I’m missing something here.”

“It doesn’t have to be the same thing, Jared.”

“Are you serious? Did it feel different? The name doesn’t mean anything, you know!” Jared’s palm came down hard on Misha’s fidgeting fingers, stilling them. Misha didn’t look up, but became very still, his shoulders set and rigid.

“Fuck,” Jared breathed, and fell back in his chair. “Fuck.”

“Guys? Wanna clue me in?”

“We could have had a performance tonight, Misha!” Jared exclaimed, somewhere between desperate and angry.

“But we don’t,” Misha said, sounding petulant.

Jensen was just lost. For some reason, the mood in the room had gone sour and angry, Misha’s shoulders set defensively and Jared equal times anxious and furious. “Guys?”

Jared sighed. “You called it Darkness. Or Cas called it Darkness – when you spoke to your Misha, yeah?”

Jensen nodded. “Yes. That’s when he sent me the picture.”

“The drug I take,” Misha began, his eyes still cast downward, “I told you it has… degenerative effects.”

Jensen nodded, still unable to put the pieces together. “Okay, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“When we… came back,” Misha went on, looking up at Jensen through his lashes, “I didn’t call it Darkness. Not at first at least. I called it-”

“Chaos. Yeah, I remember.” Jensen was still no closer to understanding, but Jared breathed sharply.

“You knew, then,” the giant said.

Misha ducked his head. “Of course I knew, Jared. But I haven’t… I haven’t been using this often, it only came because I sought it out, I swear.”

“I should make sure you never stand on a stage again,” Jared said, softly, sadly.

Misha shrank further on the couch, fingers closed tightly around the globe, his voice low and mumbling. “Jen, it’s not a disease. It’s not like when you smoke too much and get lung cancer. It’s nothing like this. Elven magic… it puts us in touch with the universe. That’s how we do what we do. But with our abilities enhanced so much… eventually we reach things that should best remain untouched, and… it never lets us go. We call it…”

“Chaos,” Jared finished, voice still soft and resigned. “We need you, Mish. I have never met anyone so brilliant on stage. The fans love you, even if you can’t feel it lately. There is no one like you. We can’t replace you!”

“I know,” Misha said, slowly releasing the orb, now filled with swirling colors of the rainbow. “I can’t promise I won’t do it again.”

“Fuck,” Jared breathed again, utterly deflated.

Jensen still wasn’t sure he understood. “So that thing… the Darkness, whatever. That’s also what ruins you if you… overuse?”

“Our magic makes us open to the universe. But there is something beyond… nothingness. Something _other_ , or _before_ , whichever belief you want to follow.” Misha leant back, his gaze travelling over Jensen and then focusing on the ceiling. “When… we go too far, we can’t find our way back. The Chaos just eats us, and we suffer and die. It’s not a nice way to go, Jen, but it’s the price we pay, sooner or later. Our brains aren’t equipped to handle the Chaos, and with the sigils, it can’t go anywhere, at least not as soon as the drug wears off. I’ve seen it happen. To good people. Family. From the outside… they just go mad. Scream. Then nothing… Sometimes it takes more than a day for them to die – no one really knows what goes on inside their heads before their brains just give up. That’s why… that’s why it scared the crap out of me. I thought… I thought it wasn’t going to let me go.”

“But that’s what brought me here? And that’s what’s threatening to intrude into my universe?”

Misha nodded. “Yeah.”

“So it’s sentient?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think it just wants to spread.”

“So why bring me here?”

Misha looked at him, then. “What if it _was_ because of me? What if it lets you go when it has me?”

Now that wasn’t going to happen. “No.”

“Jen-”

“No! You self-sacrificial ass! I only got together with… other you, because I almost lost you, and I am not letting you sacrifice your life for me!”

“What if it’s the only way to get you back to him? What if you stay and the Chaos swallows your world? What if _he_ dies alone? Jen, I am not desperate for this, I’m really not – but I’m already lost.”

Jensen pressed his lips together. “No way.”

“I _told_ you I was ready to die for you.”

“Not going to happen, Mish.”

“I guess I don’t get a say in this?” Jared put in.

“No,” Jensen and Misha said, in unison, their gazes still locked.

“Jen, I’m self-destructing anyway.”

“I’m not going to let you commit suicide.”

“It’s not-”

“Yes, it really fucking is!”

Misha dipped his head, looking down and away. “I might survive.”

“But you’re not counting on it!”

Misha’s head snapped back up. “I couldn’t live with the knowledge that I could have done something to help and didn’t!”

“Guess what, it’s not just your choice! I’ll have to live with that – live with other you, knowing that you died! Horribly, too!”

“You can’t tell me that _he_ wouldn’t do the same!”

“Guys!” Jared cut in, his voice booming.

Silence fell over the room.

Jensen broke free from Misha’s gaze, looking over at the giant, anger still coiling in his gut. He didn’t like shouting at Misha, at _any_ Misha, but he couldn’t let him do this – he just couldn’t. Misha wasn’t Cas. He wasn’t coming back, and Jensen had already almost lost him once because of supernatural crap. He wasn’t going to let it happen again.

“Misha,” Jared said, calmly, and Misha looked over, “what if you don’t take anything. What if you channel your magic through the globes and I put up a protection? It’s not a guarantee you’ll be safe, and it might not work the way we want it, but it’s a damn sight better than just jumping into the pit without a safety net.”

“Huh.” Misha tightened his grip on the globe he still held in his palm. “That might actually work.”

Jensen fixed his gaze on Jared. He wasn’t _his_ Jared, but he still considered the guy a brother. If there was anyone he trusted to come up with a solution that neither the eternally stubborn Misha nor he had thought of, it was Jared. “Yeah?”

Jared shrugged. “Worth a try – but we’ll have to move now, while the stage is clear.”

Misha pushed himself to his feet immediately. “Guess you’ll get to see me perform after all.”  



	35. Chapter 35

_~ The Impala ~_

“Shit!” Dean gasped out the moment Claire dragged in a sharp breath. Sam looked up, alarmed. It was freaky, honestly, how they could suddenly sense – feel, see? – whatever Cas did, eerily attuned.

“What?”

“Hurry up, Sam!”

Sam snapped his gaze back to the screen. “All right, I’ve got the building records. Looks like there are two abandoned clubs in the area.”

“Start talking faster!” Claire hissed, peering over his shoulder.

“What-!”

“No friggin’ time! Two clubs? Which is more likely?”

“Uh-”

“No – car! Now!”

Dean was the last out of the hotel room, snatching up only the angel blades for weapons, and then they were running for the Impala, Claire easily keeping pace with Dean. She slipped into the front seat immediately, breaking into Sam’s automatized path, and startling him for long enough that Dean shot him a dark glance when he finally slid into the backseat.

They made it to the first location in record time, probably breaking a dozen traffic laws on the way, and despite it all, Claire was still yelling at Dean to hurry. Sam really wished they would clue him in to what the hell was going on, but it didn’t look like it was going to happen.

Dean slammed the breaks in front of the building that hid the underground club, certain that this was the place.

“This is it,” Claire said, echoing his thoughts, but Dean could barely hear her over the rushing sound in his ears. Since he had first felt Cas’s mood shift from low-level discomfort with a shred of anxiety and boredom to alarm, it had dwindled down to quiet, sad acceptance and determination, and even though he had no idea what exactly was going on – this wasn’t a precise science, after all, more like a vague echo of emotions and thoughts – he knew for a fact it would end with him never seeing Cas again. And that just wasn’t going to happen.

Hell, if the Chaos had thought that the resentment it had stirred in him about Cas always abandoning him was going to drive them apart eventually, it had been really damn wrong. If anything, Dean was more determined than ever to make Cas stay, and he knew now – knew that Cas loved him, despite it all, and he was damned if he just let him flutter off.

He was out of the car and sprinting down the stairs, angel blade in hand, before he could process as much, not waiting for Sam or Claire. Time was running out. Rowena was nowhere in sight, and if she had set any magical traps, Dean didn’t encounter them – maybe he was just lucky, or maybe she had thought no one would find her layer, or maybe Cas’s company had removed them. It didn’t matter in the end when he kicked a door down to reveal an abandoned barroom, decorated with sigils, and Cas standing by a group of angels at the far end.

There was a huge supernatural portal pooling behind them, throwing the angels’ long shadows on the floor towards Dean. For once, they actually looked angelic, Cas looking out of place between their well-tailored suits and straight posture. When Dean tried to discern what he was thinking, what he was _doing_ , he found that the connection was just gone. Dean hadn’t even noticed it being withdrawn and it _stung_.

“Cas,” he gasped out, and saw Cas’s gaze flicker towards him for the briefest second, before he bowed his head towards the female vessel by his side. The other angel reached out, and touched her fingers to Cas’s forehead.

And the room exploded.

Dean barely managed to hide his face in the crook of his arm, stumbling backwards as light burst out from the point of contact, brilliant and blindingly bright, the true voice of angels ringing in his ears. He couldn’t hear anything but the shrill, undefinable sound that could shatter glass and set things on fire, didn’t know if Claire and Sam had come up behind him, or if they had stayed upstairs, if they were calling to him, if the angels he could hear were screaming, if that was _Cas_ , screaming.

When the sound and light faded out, there were spots dancing in the blackness of Dean’s eyelids, and he lifted his head tentatively, turning towards where the angels had been. It was dark in the bar now, neon lights busted and only shooting the occasional spark. The portal was gone, and so, it seemed, were the angels.

“Dammit!” Dean’s voice sounded muffled in his own ears, and he was really tempted to just fling the angel blade through the room. “Cas!”

Then, he saw the movement.

Hope fluttered in his chest, but Dean squashed it down, stepping forward cautiously, the blade raised before him. “Cas?”

Someone was getting to his feet at the other end of the room, and then there was a flash of light, three pairs of wings throwing enormous shadows against the walls and ceilings.

Dean reared back, only years of experience keeping him from dropping the blade and bolting for the door. “Holy-!”

“That… seems to be an accurate description,” a familiar voice said from the darkness, and Dean wasn’t sure whether to run towards or away from it.

“Cas?”

“That is my name, yes,” Cas said, but it didn’t sound like him. There was a stiffness, a inhumanness to it Dean hadn’t noticed in Cas for a long time.

“Are you… are you okay? What just happened?” Dean blinked, trying to get his eyes accustomed to the dim light, but there were still spots dancing in his vision, shadows of wings seared into his retina.

“Dean, I…”

“Dean! What happened?” Sam burst in behind him, momentum almost carrying him into Dean, waving a flashlight and a blade.

“Not sure. Where’s Claire?”

“Back at the car.”

“Claire is here?” Cas asked from the shadows, not coming closer.

Dean turned back towards him, freaked out. “Yeah. Why’d you cut the connection, Cas?”

“I knew there would be a price to pay for Heaven’s assistance against the Darkness. I wanted to spare you.”

Dean didn’t like the cagey tone, and pulled the flashlight from Sam’s grasp, flicking it on. “Right, so why don’t you tell us what happened?” He searched the room with the circle of light, until he found Cas – or who sounded like Cas.

His ratty brown trench coat and ill-fitting suit was gone. Instead, he wore a smartly cut black coat, vaguely like a trench, its ends pooling around Cas’s knees. His new stripey tie was gone, too, leaving only a plain white shirt, top buttons undone. Both it and the coat where hugging Cas’s frame, stressing his body where Jimmy’s outfit had downplayed it. Cas had his head tilted downward and away, staring at his hand as if it were a foreign object.

Sam dragged in a sharp breath. “Cas?”

Cas’s eyes flickered up, catching the light of the flashlight. “I’m not sure.”

Caution be damned – this was _Cas_! – Dean moved closer, stepping over the dust and debris the explosion of light had left behind. “Hey, are you alright? Let’s go outside, yeah? Before Rowena comes back.”

Cas nodded, reaching out, and a second later they stood outside, next to the Impala, where Claire was waiting. She let out a surprised squeak at their appearance.

“The hell!”

Dean was about ready to echo the sentiment. “I thought you’d lost your wings!”

Cas still looked lost, wouldn’t meet anyone’s gaze. His own expression was carefully guarded, and Dean wished he could see his eyes, could see what the guy was thinking, dammit, because what the hell – the black dress made him look foreign, a little like a priest, but more like an assassin. When Cas spoke, his voice sounded the same, the usual soft, gravelly tones. “I had. Dean…”

“Talk to me. What’s going on?” Dean moved into his space, ducking his head to catch Cas’s eyes, and finding them impossibly blue, eternity lingering behind them. Cas hadn’t looked this angelic in years, not since that first night in Bobby’s kitchen, and it sent a shiver down Dean’s spine. “What’s with the outfit change?”

Cas no longer avoided his gaze, looking at Dean as if he were his lifeline, not caring for or not feeling the hand Dean had placed on his arm. “I am not who I thought I was.”

“That… doesn’t make sense, Cas,” Dean said, carefully, ignoring the angry clamor of _He’s going to leave. He’s going to leave you_. echoing in his head.

Cas lifted his hand and rested it gently against Dean’s cheek, his thumb moving gently Dean’s cheekbone. “I don’t know how it happened, Dean. But back when… back when I was under Naomi’s control she told me that she had… reprogrammed me before. And I believed her then, and I know she was speaking the truth now. I’m not just Castiel. I never was just Castiel.”

 _He’s going to leave. This is goodbye_. Dean choked, leaning into the touch. “Cas…”

Cas’s thumb brushed over his cheekbone again, just under his eye. “My name is Cassiel, and I’m an archangel.”

Dean jerked his head back, out of Cas’s grasp, leaving the angel’s hand hanging uselessly in the air. Hurt flashed through the way too ethereal eyes. “What?”

“I’m still me, Dean,” Cas said, very softly.

“You’re not – my Cas is not an archangel. Those are all dicks!”

“Dean…”

Dean shifted his gaze from Cas, becoming aware of Sam and Claire, who were standing by the Impala and watching them in absolute silence. He took a step away from Cas, then another, and another, until he had walked around the car to the driver’s side. “I’m not dealing with this here and now. Get in.” And proceeded to do just that himself.

He saw Sam and Claire glance at each other in the corner of his eye and clenched his fist around the steering wheel, bracing for their arguments. Yet, they didn’t say anything as they climbed into the car. Cas remained standing on the curb, and Dean couldn’t say it, couldn’t ask him to get in already, because it didn’t feel like it was _his_ Cas, standing there. He shifted the Impala into gear, and Cas still wasn’t moving.

Sam was glaring at him from the passenger seat, and he could feel Claire’s stare boring into his head from behind, but he _couldn’t_ … “As you like,” he hissed, under his breath, when not-Cas still hadn’t moved, and pulled the car off the curb and into traffic.

Sam squawked in his seat. “Dean! Turn the car around!”

“He wants to stay, he stays.”

Claire, her reflection visible in the rear-view mirror, crossed her arms. “He isn’t Cas, but you’re being an ass.”

“Exactly! He isn’t Cas! I’m not going to let any strange angel climb into my car! What if it’s the Darkness?”

Sam’s face was suddenly very red. “Yes, what if it _is_ the Darkness, and this is the final push of it driving the two of you apart? Dean, what if you have just unleashed the apocalypse!”

“Then we’ll deal with it, like we always have,” Dean snapped, bringing his foot down on the gas pedal.

****

Cassiel – Castiel – he wasn’t sure how he should refer to himself now. He had been Castiel for so long, his real name felt foreign, felt wrong. He didn’t even use ‘Castiel’ all that often anymore. Most of the times, he was just Cas, would rather be just Cas. But he didn’t do anything as the rear of the Impala disappeared from his sight, didn’t fly after Dean and land in the backseat, as he so often had. Dean’s desire for Castiel – and Claire’s confusion, too – pulsed through him, as clear as if he had never fallen, had never been locked out of Heaven. As if Metatron had never stolen his Grace. He wondered if Metatron had known, if any of them that were as old as he had known, if they had all sensed it. If that was the reason they had gravitated towards him as their leader, even after he had killed so many of their brethren. If that was the reason he kept being brought back, kept surviving, if that was why Naomi had rescued him from Purgatory. He didn’t know why his powers had been unlocked, whether his Father had played a hand in it – he didn’t dare count on it. Was He was truly gone, and what would the angels who had come report back in Heaven. He didn’t want to hear them, did not want to be flooded with the Heavenly communication, even now. There were many questions – why had God created him differently, a watcher, a guardian, not a warrior, like his closest brothers? Why, when Cassiel had been punished, stripped of his memory and nature, for loving too much, too deeply, too humanly, had God not taken away this flaw in his making? Not even with the power of an archangel there were answers to those questions.

Other things, however, were very simple now. _He_ had been the one to first fight the Darkness. _He_ had been the one to give Lucifer the skill to drive it away, the strategist who gave Lucifer the means that would give him his name, Lightbringer. Perhaps the fact that Dean had borne the Mark had not been the sole reason that the Darkness latched onto him – onto _them_ , first. Perhaps the fact that _Dean_ had taken on the Mark had to do with more than his bloodline, had to do with his relationship with Cas.

At any rate, Cassiel had banished the Darkness once, he could do it again. But first, there was something else to correct.

Cas flew into the bunker, stepping out of the ethereal plane angels used for flight directly in front of the mirror – the dimensional bridge. Now that he remembered creating it, shaping it with his own powers, he could bring up the image of other-him with ease, watch him toss and turn on his bed.

The link hadn’t been intended to go towards any version of Castiel – it had been a link to one of his humans, a link he had crafted so he wouldn’t need to travel through dimensions to communicate with him. Of course, that was a long time ago: In either universe, all the Neanderthals had since mingled with Homo Sapiens or died out. Now, aside from his poetry. Cas could remember his face, his voice, their long conversations and the constant buzz of his affectionate regard and desire for Cas’s company. And, of course, he remembered the human’s death, and remembered how he had abandoned the mirror on Earth, not daring to bring it back into Heaven with him. Cas didn’t know how it had survived the centuries, how it had eventually ended up with the Men of Letters, but that was inconsequential. It needed to be destroyed, as Cas would have done a long time ago, if he had only remembered.

Castiel stepped across the bridge the mirror created right into the room where his alter-ego was struggling with sleep. The act barely strained his graze at all, enormous power humming underneath the fragile skin of what was now his body, and his alone. He had expected other-him to jolt upright at the sounds of his arrival, of course. This close, he could also feel the waves of discomfort radiating from his alter-ego, and see the shadows of his true form, fractured and frozen, unmovable and aching, lingering around the not-quite human.

Other-him recognized him, of course. He dropped his hand with the gun back on the sheets, scrubbing the other over his face wearily. “So you’re still alive.”

Castiel nodded. “Yes.”

“Wasn’t sure you would be, what with the Darkness manifesting just outside.”

“I will take care of it.”

“Uhuh,” other-Cas said, sarcasm dripping from his voice, but then he cocked his head to the side. “Huh. There’s something different about you.”

Castiel stepped forward, lowering himself on the edge of the bed beside the other, and rested his palm gently on top of the other’s hand and weapon. “I am really here, now, and I remember all.” He allowed some grace to flood into his alter ego, smoothing away the aches and pains.


	36. Chapter 36

_~ Camp Chitaqua ~_

Cas could feel what his alter ego, still an angel, was doing. The remnants of his own grace screamed out at the angelic touch, trying to connect with power that was achingly familiar. He had been trying and failing to ignore the pain before, but now it ebbed away slowly under the touch of grace, and he dared to breathe a little easier, a little freer, a little less human. But, by Heaven, he had to be hallucinating. “How are you here? Dimensional travel is only for archangels.”

Other-him looked up, blue eyes staring into his in the dark, standing out almost as much as his white shirt under the dark coat. “Yes, and I think you have sensed it. If the Darkness is here, now, you will have sensed it.”

Cas thought of the drawing and the name and swallowed hard. “It is us?”

“Cassiel, yes.”

Cas felt like crying or screaming or laughing. It was hard to tell the difference anymore, and what could he possibly do with the knowledge that he had not only failed at being an angel – he had failed at being an _archangel_. The sound that escaped his lips was something like a sob. “Why did they take it away?”

Cassiel held his gaze evenly, infinite compassion shining from within. Cas wanted to rail against it, spit into his face for even daring to _pity him_ – but Cassiel’s expression was without judgement, full of gentleness for which Cas no longer had the strength. Other-him shifted his glance away before he answered, “For punishment, and because they thought it would fix us.” He made to stand. “The mirror should never have been left here. I will destroy it now.”

“Wait!” Cas caught onto the unfamiliar dark sleeve. “Don’t fight the Darkness alone. You might be an archangel, but this is immeasurable power. Get Dean to help you.”

Cassiel paused, a bit of the angelic distance dropping away from his stance and expression. “Dean… doesn’t seem to be interested in engaging with me.”

“Rubbish.” Cas clenched his fingers into the fabric, knowing that no matter how hard he gripped, he wouldn’t be able to so much as scratch the being that represented everything he had lost. His practically human presence might as well matter nothing to him – to Cassiel – and he had no authority over him, could not expect him to listen to his advice. But it still needed saying. “Dean’s just an ass. He’ll come round, and you need him by your side. If I know anything, I know that.”

Cassiel fixed him with his stare, full of power and grace, and still very kind. “I will find a way to return your Dean to you.”

Cas scoffed a laugh. “Yeah. Now do something so I can sleep?”

 


	37. Chapter 37

_~ The Bunker ~_

Destroying the mirror was simple. Cas walked along its crumbling ruins back into his own universe, finding that it’s physical anchor – the frame and mirror – had cracked, no longer radiating supernatural power. It was nothing but a broken human device now. There was nothing angelic about it anymore, and there was no reason he couldn’t leave it in the Bunker for the Winchesters to do with as they pleased. Even if they should lose it eventually and someone found out what it used to be from the inscription, there was no reactivating it. There was no connection to another universe within it anymore.

Cas thought of his alter ego’s words, of whether he should talk to Dean, talk to Sam and Claire. Whether he should leave them in peace and defeat the Darkness on his own, never to return. He had no idea how big the ripple effect had been. At least this alter ego of his, though practically graceless, had still sensed it – sensed Cassiel’s reawakening. One way or another, they were closer than most parts of the multiverse, which was infinite. He had no idea how many universes the Darkness had touched, whether it was a select few or every one. He hoped for the former, but the Darkness was powerful.

It had taken Cassiel several tries to perfect a sigil that would keep it contained – and that would be his downfall when Lucifer offered it to Abel, only for Abel’s brother Cain to take it instead before Cassiel could interfere. He had mourned Abel’s loss, and then he had been punished. After that, he was Castiel, the seraph, the soldier.

Cain should never have received the Mark, and Cassiel should not have trusted Lucifer, so shortly before his Fall. Of course Cassiel had not known that Lucifer’s greatest transgression was only to come. Wasn’t it strange that the humans could sense Lucifer’s corruption even back then, when all his brothers and sisters were still blind to it? Of course the Mark still worked. It kept the Darkness contained, but its bearer was the wrong one, and Chaos and Lucifer corrupted him, slowly but surely. Cain was gone, now, as was the Mark, thankfully before it had taken another victim. All Cas had to do now was contain the Darkness once more, and create a new sigil, a better one. There was no need to find a bearer this time. Alone in this body, Cas would just take the Mark himself, something that would not have been possible with the old one, even though Cas would gladly have taken it off Dean if he had been able to. But the Mark of Cain had not been designed for angels.

Cas walked out of the room, unsure about the weight of his wings, familiar and still foreign, feeling too heavy, too large, too powerful. It brought with it a heady sense of power that Cas had learned to dread, but he had also learned from his mistakes. This power was _his_ , more than the souls of Purgatory had ever been, and he knew how to use it this time. The Darkness would be contained, and then… then…

Cas’s steps carried him into the library, where he stopped to look over the Men of Letters’ wealth of old books, taking in the faint traces of the Winchesters’ presence. He wasn’t sure if he had lost Dean’s faith, his love – the longing he could feel was for Castiel, and Cas wasn’t sure if he was that, still. He was still himself, undoubtedly, but he was no longer Castiel, no longer Cassiel, either. A name was a choice Cas had never expected to have to make for himself.

He was still in the library, flexing his wings, when the Winchesters and Claire returned.     


	38. Chapter 38

_~ Terris Concordae ~_

Jensen wasn’t going to lie – seeing Jared and Misha on stage was pretty damn impressive. Shooting Supernatural was fun, but the real magic happened behind the scenes. More often than not special effects setups made for ridiculous shoots, Misha with lightbulbs strapped to his palm for angel grace, or Jared dropping onto a mattress where there should have been a whole in the ground. It was good fun, but it wasn’t the same as the real thing. This… this might not have been Supernatural, but it was the real thing. Not even magic shows could compare. This was real magic, and god, was it impressive.

On stage, Misha had a whole collection of orbs, stacked above each other in a kind of weird xylophone to the side of the stage, where he could pick them up as he needed them, only to dance right back onto stage a moment later, never losing his momentum. Jared was more grounded. He stood steadfast in the back of the stage, a look of intense concentration on his face as he weaved protection around Misha, watching him move fluidly between orbs.

Jensen was sitting crosslegged at the foremost edge of the stage, magic flickering around him as half-formed shapes and landscapes. The air was charged with emotions that weren’t his own, but they washed over him nonetheless, running ever higher. Once, he could have sworn that there were the shadows of huge black wings behind Misha’s shoulders, up until the point where Jared had growled to “Stash the wings, Misha!” and they had disappeared. Jensen wasn’t sure what the two of them were doing but it looked a lot like a combination of dancing and weaving.

They had decided that Jensen needed to be on stage with them, even if he wasn’t used to the onslaught of magic, but Jensen found that he wasn’t afraid – wasn’t even nervous, and wondered whether that was Misha, messing with his feelings and taking away the anxiety he still felt about all of this. Replacing it with fortitude and mirth.

Eventually, Misha slowed to a halt, rolling a small orb over the back of his hand and between his fingers, and fell to his knees in front of Jensen. His eyes were gleaming with life, brighter even than the beads of sweat on his forehead, as much as those were shining in the magic around them. He reached out his free hand, cupping Jensen’s cheek, and Jensen realized immediately what he was doing. He didn’t want to say no, not now, not when the elf might not survive. He leaned in willingly, and just before their lips touched, Misha brushed his fingers over his cheekbone, stopping him.

“This is a stolen kiss, I know. Good luck, Jen.” His voice was a whispered gush of air against Jensen’s skin. Then, Misha’s eyes fell shut and he pressed his lips onto Jensen’s. He smelled sweetly like the fruit he had given Jensen earlier, his touch on Jensen’s cheek soft as a feather’s. The kiss was almost chased in its close-lippedness, but at the same time gentle and firm, and when Misha parted his lips slightly in a sigh, Jensen felt magic rush into him.

He grabbed onto Misha, not wanting to part like this, without a chance to say goodbye, but the elf was already slipping away, an orb shining impossibly brightly in his other palm. The last thing Jensen saw was Misha’s eyes rolling up into his head and his body lilting sideways, then everything went dark.


	39. Chapter 39

_~ The Bunker ~_

Dean didn’t want to talk to Sam. Dean didn’t want to talk to anyone – he wanted to take the car and go somewhere, anywhere, windows rolled down and blasting music so loud he couldn’t think anymore. What if Sam was right? What if this was it, the final punch the Darkness could deliver? What if it had taken over Cas and this was how they lost? Meanwhile, Sam was religiously keeping track of the news reports, but he either hadn’t found anything out of the ordinary, or he hadn’t mentioned it, while Claire just sulked in the backseat, pouting. The silence was deafening, and the rumbling of the radio just plucked at Dean’s high-strung nerves until he punched it out forcefully. In the Impala’s vents, the legos rattled, and for once, the sound wasn’t a comfort. Dean drove them back to the bunker, and when they were there, he got out of the car with the others and followed them inside, fighting down the urge to run. Burying himself in his room with his headphones and ipod was the next best thing.

He hadn’t expected Cas to be there, waiting – or what used to be Cas, or was pretending to be Cas.

He could almost still see the shadow of the three enormous pairs of wings, looming dark and powerful behind the angel’s back. They weren’t visible now – but Cas was still in the unfamiliar black outfit, and that was enough of a reminder that things were nowhere near what they had been. It wasn’t as though black didn’t suit Cas – it really did, though a splash of color would have been nice, maybe a blue tie – but it just didn’t look like Cas. None of the strength shining out from the angel looked like Cas anymore. Cas – Cas was practically human. This guy looked like a poor facsimile, not at home in his body or the bunker.

Sam shouldered past Dean before he could say anything. “Cas!”

 _Not_ -Cas looked up, squaring his shoulders. Dean saw a cagey look flitter across his face, as if he were preparing himself for a confrontation.

“I’m glad you didn’t run off, man,” Sam said, clapping him on the shoulder and shooting a dark glare towards Dean.

But hey, it wasn’t just Dean. Claire had stopped at the foot of the stairs as well, hesitant. She might have objected to Dean leaving the angel behind, but she clearly wasn’t happy. Dean wondered whether this felt like her father vanishing all over again. Cas was – Cas had become to mean so much to all of them.

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas said quietly, and damn, he _still_ sounded like Cas.

“Okay.” Dean dropped his back right where he stood, stalking up to the table. Resigning himself to a conversation he’d rather not have. He had no right to Cas. None. He had done nothing to deserve him, and if Cas was gone, that was no less a punishment than was fit for what Dean had done to him. But if Cas was gone – Dean needed to know that he had to give him up. That there was nothing left to rescue, nothing left behind. That he could mourn. “Explain. What are you?”

Cas shrugged, his eyes never meeting Dean’s. “I’m still trying to figure that out myself, Dean. I’m sorry.”

Dean wanted to say “don’t be” and “you’re my Cas” and grab him by the lapels and drag him into a filthy kiss, but he did none of that. Instead, he broadened his stance and folded his arms. “So are you Cas or aren’t you.”

The angel still didn’t meet his gaze. “I told you, Dean, I was never Castiel – I just thought I was. When… when my father created me, my name was Cassiel and I was an archangel. Then I was punished, and my memory was erased.”

“What’d you do?” Claire piped up from behind Dean.

Cas’s eyes flickered over to her for a moment, then back to his hands, folded in his lap. “I was going to give the power to contain the Darkness to a human I trusted.”

“Hang on.” Sam slid into a chair across the table. “‘The Power to contain the Darkness?’ Do you mean the Mark of Cain?”

“That wasn’t its name then, but yes,” Cas explained quietly, “Cain was never intended to bear it. It wasn’t designed for him, but I should not have trusted Lucifer to be my messenger.”

Sam waved his hand about, putting things together. “So you… designed the Mark. And you wanted to give it to Abel?”

Cas inclined his head slightly into Sam’s direction, but his face and body remained turned towards Dean, even if he didn’t meet his eyes. “Yes. I suppose I… always had too much trust in humans.”

 _So I’m not the first_ , shot through Dean’s head, and hell if that wasn’t a selfish thought. Cas certainly wasn’t _his_ first anything – friend, partner, lover – but of course his mind would get hung up on that, of all things. What right did _he_ have to be jealous?

“You are the first human I have really loved and understood what it means to, Dean,” Cas said quietly, as if he were reading his thoughts.

Dean didn’t know what to reply to that. _You’re my first angel_? He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “So what now? Is Heaven going to help with the Darkness business? Or did we blow that, too?”

“There will be no need for Heaven to assist us,” Cas said calmly. “I have contained the Darkness once, I can do it again. It has been gaining power, but it is nowhere near as powerful as it once was. Even with the Mark removed, at the moment there is still only a very small crack through which it is escaping, just in our universe of many. The Mark or its equivalents will exist in all other parts of the multiverse where there is anything but Chaos, and when we cast the spell, it did not affect any of them. What has bled though has come through Dean and myself, not through an actual opening.” He paused, considering. “There is no need for a solution more powerful than the original Mark. I will close the crack, and eradicate the traces of Darkness that are left.”

“You’ll need a stopgap, then,” Sam said, hesitation in his voice, and Dean caught onto his meaning immediately.

“Another Mark? Not gonna happen, Cas, we can’t do that to anyone.”

Cas ground his teeth. “I told you, the Mark was never intended for Cain. But if it is any consolation, I plan on taking it myself.”

“What?” Dean realized only later that he hadn’t been the only one to say, that Claire was right by his side and that Sam had jumped up from his chair.

Cas remained calm. “It won’t have any effect on me, Dean, if I design it right.”

“ _If_.”

“I am quite capable, Dean.”

“Can’t you just get rid of the Darkness?” Claire asked.

“No. There are some forces that cannot be destroyed. Darkness, light – love…” Cas cleared his throat again, looking up at Dean and for once meeting his eyes. He looked tired, pleading, and something in Dean melted.

“That’s really friggin’ cliché, Cas,” he said, and leant forward to plant a kiss on Cas’s mouth when the angel tilted his head up to meet him.

It was a short kiss, the angle awkward and Cas’s hand only barely tangling in Dean’s hair before Dean pulled back, his face burning.

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

**** 

The mark Cas designed looked deceptively simple, nothing like the jagged edged sigil the Mark of Cain had been. Dean still wasn’t happy about Cas taking it, but at least they were sitting side by side, his hand entwined with Cas’s free one, while he was sketching out the sigil design with black marker. It had the shape of a pair of stylized wings interwoven with Enochian sigils. Dean hadn’t pegged Cas for much of an artist, but he had to leave it to the angel – sigil design was his thing. Hell, he’d get this as a tattoo if having tattoos weren’t so suspicious when you were pretending to be FBI. He squeezed Cas’s hand. “Looks neat.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Dean, but beauty isn’t the aim.”

“Yeah, I know. Cas – about what I did when I had the Mark…”

Cas paused in his sketching, the soft smile that had been on his face since Dean had kissed him fading slightly. “There is no need to speak of it again, Dean.”

“No, but…”

“I have forgiven you. Now I need you to forgive yourself.”

Dean swallowed down the urge to apologize, the urge to tell Cas that he deserved none of this, didn’t deserve him, of all people, especially not after he had only just left him standing by the curb when the universe had thrown another curveball at them. “I don’t get how you do it.”

“I don’t believe you wanted to kill me, and even with the Mark, you didn’t. I could have fought you, Dean, and I chose not to because I knew. It wasn’t you.”

“What have I done to deserve you?”

Cas just gave his hand a squeeze and resumed drawing.

“So this sigil won’t do anything bad?”

“It will contain the Darkness, and it won’t affect me in the way the Mark of Cain did you.”

“That’s… not really an answer.” Dean pulled his hand away, suddenly concerned. Sam was out looking for ingredients for this spell of Cas’s, and Claire was monitoring the news – no more strange occurrences so far, but they were still trying to get this done as quickly as possible. Cas had said that because he had regained his full power and Dean had allowed himself to love the Darkness could no longer touch them – which explained why Dean no longer felt the bitter resentment against Cas coiling in his gut – but that it was still free and still attacking, whether it be in the multiverse surrounding the two of them or outside in their own universe. Bottom line, they had to move fast, and Dean hadn’t really had any time to properly talk to Cas about what he was going to do.

Cas sighed and pulled his hand back to himself. He added a final letter to the sigil before capping and putting down the marker. “I don’t know how it will affect my powers, Dean. When I first conceived of the sigil, I crafted it specifically for Abel, for a human. Lucifer had fought the Darkness back, but it wasn’t contained, wasn’t fully banished, and sometimes, the Chaos still flooded out. It still… seeped, now, even with the Mark – Cain was never the right lock, nor were you – but it used to be so much worse. It won’t… harm me in the way the Mark did you, and it won’t kill me – it might not do anything, but I also might lose my powers.”

“All of them?”

“Or some. I don’t know, Dean, I’m sorry. But this is the only way.”

“What if you made a new mark especially for me?”

“You would never be able to die, Dean.”

“So? You’re not dying, either.”

Cas shook his head. “It took me years to develop the original Mark for a being I could never know as well as myself. This is faster.”

“I want you safe, Cas.”

The smile returned to Cas’s lips, lighting up his eyes. He turned to press a chaste kiss to Dean’s cheek. “I know. I will be.”

And really, what could Dean do but accept that? “So is it done?”

Cas held up the paper, looking over the drawing. “Yes.”

“Where’ll you put it?”

“The inside of my wrist seems like a convenient location.”

“You’ll have to able to hide it, you know, if you want to come hunting with us.”

“It won’t look as the Mark of Cain did, Dean. The Mark was forced on the wrong host, twice. This will barely be more prominent than a tattoo, if at all.” Cas put the paper back down. “How is Sam progressing?”

Dean thumbed on his phone. “Says he’s on the way back.”

**** 

The ritual was as deceptively simple as the sigil itself. Cas ground the ingredients into a mushy paste, chanting in Enochian, while Dean, Sam and Claire could do nothing but stand in the room with him and watch. Dean had wanted to be closer, but Cas wouldn’t allow it, drawing a circle around himself which he had decorated with more sigils, ever more complicated looking, into which he would allow neither of them to step. Eventually, he readied his angel blade, letting it hover over his palm, and glanced up at Dean.

“That it?” Dean asked.

“Yes.” Cas’s lips twitched up in a small smile, and Dean’s stomach somersaulted. “Wish me luck?”

“Good luck,” both Sam and Claire chimed before Dean had time to get on with the program. “Yeah, that,” he stuttered, lamely, watching Cas’s eyes light up with fond amusement.

Then, Cas looked back down, and dragged the blade over his palm, drawing blood and grace. Both trickled into the bowl, and then the room exploded with light.


	40. Chapter 40

_~ Vancouver ~_

The burst of light was blinding, so bright that even turned away and with his arm thrown over his eyes, Misha could still see it, whitening out his vision. He felt Jared clutching onto his arm, but his sense of space had become wonky, shrill, white and distorted.

When the light finally let up, he found that he was practically hugging the fridge, Jared a tense giant by his side, and Dean leaning onto the kitchen counter, his face hidden into the crook of his elbow, posture still tense. “Fuck,” he said, eloquently, and Misha found himself agreeing, even if he wasn’t sure what exactly had just happened.

“What was that?!” Jared exclaimed, finally relaxing the bruising grip on Misha’s biceps.

Misha let his eyes skirt over the picture of Jensen on the fridge and turned around, looking for Cas, who was still kneeling on the floor. The angel looked no worse for wear, his expression almost serene.

“Cas?”

Cas looked up, his gaze travelling from Misha to Dean and back, a little smile curling his lips. “My apologies.”

“Dude, what was that? The one time this happened to _my_ Cas, he ended up human!”

Cas pushed himself to his feet slowly, never losing the calm and patient expression. “I cannot explain multiverse theory to you, Dean – to any of you. But the Darkness will be contained.”

“How do you know that?” Misha asked when what he really wanted to say was, _Is Jensen coming back?_

“Carrying this Mark has taught me many things,” Cas said, opening his arms in a semi-shrug, “one of which is that while the Darkness can travel across dimensions, there are forces that have the same capability. If I had known this many years ago, perhaps my Dean would still be alive. But it is not my universe that is the source of the disruption, nor is it yours. It lies in the hand of our alter egos to right this, and I think they are well on their way to do just that. For now, I have been able to dispel whatever of the Darkness’ influence has bled here.”

Dean’s eyes had glazed over, and he looked entirely nonplussed. Misha had no idea how his Cas put up with him. Dean scrubbed his boots against the floor. “So, can I go home?”

Cas nodded. “Yes. I have sufficiently recovered, and we should be able to travel soon.”

Misha tensed despite himself. He was glad that Cas and Dean were going home – he really was. He was also glad that the world wasn’t going to end, at least not at this very instant, and that the supernatural would soon be just a TV show in his life again, even though he felt like he really hadn’t done anything to make that happen. Really, he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, and if…

Jared’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder, the sasquatch crowding into his space. “Is Jensen coming back?”

Cas’s eyes settled on Misha, his expression one of concern, pity – and understanding. “I don’t know. It’s not possible for me to find him. I have regained some of my powers since taking the Mark, but it also puts limitations on me.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Cas. You didn’t take him away,” Misha said, a knot settling into his throat. At least Jensen would be fine, probably. He still had a Misha to take care of him in that other universe, after all, and now that the Darkness would soon no longer be a problem anymore… well, he would just have to settle in. Jensen, as stubborn as he could be, would do that just fine. He always knew what people needed, after all, and if it took him a little longer to figure out what _he_ needed, it wouldn’t stop him from integrating into a universe where there were Misha’s and Jared’s alter-egos to help him out.

Jared was shooting him strange glances of worry and surprise, but Misha was determined to ignore them, for now, at least. Jensen wasn’t dead. There was nothing to mourn. He cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable feeling at the back of it. “Sorry I couldn’t do more to help.”

Cas stepped forward, capturing Misha’s hands in his. “You have done enough. Your universe, and your life, has seen more disruption than any one should, and yet you gave us shelter and food, and did your best to keep us safe.”

Misha shrugged, not being able to meet Cas’s eyes. It was still too weird, looking at his own face, unmirrored, and sensing the enormity of an angel’s power behind it. “It’s just what I do.”

“It isn’t what everyone would have done,” Cas said, letting go of his hands. “You have my thanks.”

Misha looked from him to Dean, thinking how much he didn’t really look like Jensen, how much Cas didn’t really look like him. “So this is goodbye? You’re okay to head home? The Mark - will that be fine?”

Cas rolled up his sleeve, revealing that his forearm had returned to its normal tone, the Mark itself still standing out in an ugly red, but no longer inflamed. “The Darkness tried to intrude into this universe, but when I took the Mark off my Dean, I had to change it to fit an angel, and over the years I have… learned. It is more powerful now. This universe is without the supernatural, so the Darkness only had one point of access, you and me. I stopped it.”

“Just like that?” Jared asked, equal times impressed and incredulous.

“Not… ‘just’,” Cas said, “but our alter-ego, the one in the universe where it started, knows now. It made it easier.”

“Knows?”

Cas looked Misha squarely in the eye. “That we used to be an archangel.”

Silence. Jared looked stunned, Dean was open-mouthed and gaping.

“The hell?” Dean eventually breathed, sounding winded.

“I wish I could say that I’ve always know that there was more to Castiel,” Misha said, forcing a smile. He prided himself on knowing his character well, but in the end, he was just a second-rate actor, no matter how much work he put into his portrayal, or how enthusiastic his fans were. “Good luck, Cas. And thank _you_.”

Cas nodded and stepped back, seemingly oblivious to the enormity of what he had just revealed. “Are you ready, Dean?”

“Hang on! Just give me a second, here!” Dean grumbled, stepping up to Misha and Jared. His eyes skirted over Jared uneasily, not really quite settling, before fixing on Misha. “Look, uh… I’m not the type to say thanks, okay? But I’m sorry about… uh, other me. And I figured, if you wanted to, I’m sure my Cas wouldn’t mind…”

“I’m not kissing you, you ass,” Misha said gently, before Dean could stutter out any more words. “You have an inflated idea of your charms, Dean Winchester.”

Dean leered. “Well, Cas doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Get back to him, then.”

“Was just trying to be nice.”

“You really weren’t.”

“Okay, I wasn’t.” Dean shrugged, acquiescing, the brooding mask sliding back onto his face. “Wish I could stay, though. Fuck, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not true, not really, just…” His eyes flittered to Jared again. “Fuck.”

Misha reached around Dean to grab Jared’s grocery back off the counter. It was the least he could do. “Here, take these. I’m sure Cas’ll appreciate the fresh food.”

Dean accepted the bag with a gruff “Thanks” then turned towards Cas. “Let’s go.”

Cas gave another nod towards Misha and Jared, then touched his palm to Dean’s shoulders, and with the sound of wings flapping, they were gone.

“You gave them our food,” Jared said, intelligently.

“Dean needs it more than we do, believe me.” Misha turned back towards the fridge, tracing the edge of the photograph with his fingertips.

“You okay?”

Misha shrugged, feeling numb – like he had just woken up from a dream, like all the insanity of the past hours had been nothing but, and he was back in the hell where Jensen was dead and he couldn’t remember him dying. “He’s not dead, is he.”

Jared, of course, knew who he was referring to. “I suppose not. Misha, this is really fucked up.”

Misha let out a low chuckle despite himself, but before he could reply, there was the doorbell again, then a loud banging at the front door. “How many people did you invite over?” he snapped at Jared, perhaps more harshly than he ordinarily would. He really couldn’t deal with any more people right now, but Jared lived and breathed for crowds, only really alive when he was surrounded by friends. Misha and Jensen both preferred a certain quiet when they felt fragile – perhaps that was why they had gravitated towards each other.

Jared, however, looked downright offended. “None! It’s just me, Misha – you know I wouldn’t do that!”

Misha gave Jared a tired smile and went to answer the door, not bothering with the peephole this time.

His breath caught in his throat.

Outside, in the brisk morning air, stood Jensen, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Heya, Mish.”

Misha had no breath for speech.

Jensen rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Uh, sorry I couldn’t get here sooner, but I woke up back on set and had to drive over first. I should have called, but my phone is dead and, well… you gonna let me in?”

“You fucker!” Misha burst out laughing, and if it was slightly hysterical, no one needed to know.

Jensen’s answering grin was blinding. “That a yes?”

Misha pulled him in by the lapels of his – Dean’s, really – flannel shirt, and pressed his lips on Jensen’s in a heated, hasty, sloppy kiss.

Jensen hummed into him, then wrapped his arms around him and tucked his head into the crook of Misha’s neck. Just holding him close, nosing at the stray tuffs of hair sticking out above Misha’s ears. “Love you ears, Mish.”

Misha chuckled. “Idiot.”

“I prefer them without the points.”

“Yeah?” Misha leant into the embrace, breathing in _Jensen_ and _home_ and _real_.

Jensen stuck his tongue out, swiping it over the rim of Misha’s ear. It tickled, and Misha shoved him for it, but without enough force to separate them.

“Yeah. Cutie-patootie.”

“Sentimental arse.” Misha shifted, burying his nose into Jensen’s neck and breathing in his scent. “I can do this all day, you know.”

A low chuckle rose from Jensen’s throat, making his whole body shivered. “Yeah. Oh, hey, Jar.”

Misha couldn’t see Jared from the way they were standing wrapped around each other, but he could hear the smile in the other man’s face when Jared said: “Hey, Jensen.”

Jensen slowly let his arms slide down Misha’s back, releasing him. “You gonna let go, Mish?”

“No. Don’t wanna.” So, okay, maybe he was a selfish bastard, and Jared had thought Jensen was dead, too, but he was damned if he let Jensen slip through his fingers.

And of course Jensen knew him better than anyone. “I’m really here, you know that, right?” he said, very softly, into Misha’s ear.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Misha slipped out of the embrace, tugging Jensen into their house by the sleeve, and then closed the front door behind him while Jared pulled Jensen into a bone-crushing hug, his bottom lip trembling.

“Dammit, Jen.”

“Sorry, big guy,” Jensen said, looking apologetic. “Fuck the universe, right?”

“How did you get back,” Misha asked, leaning against the wall of the hallway, “did Cas…?”

Jensen turned back to him, giving Jared a companionable slap on the shoulder. “No, not Cas. Is he – is everything okay here?”

“Yeah. Uh, Cas… fixed it. Apparently he’s an archangel, so…” Misha shrugged. “He just left to take Dean home.”

“And Misha gave them all our food,” Jared said.

“Oh, shut up, Jared,” Misha shot back, half-heartedly, his eyes never leaving Jensen.

Jensen grinned a little, his eyes lighting up. “Uh, no, it wasn’t Cas back there. It was you – well, other you.”

“The elf?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he do?”

Jensen’s grin faded. “Shit, Mish, I hope he’s alright.”

Misha immediately closed the space between them again, leaning in and brushing his shoulder against Jensen’s. “What happened?”

“He did this… magic thing. Thought that if he tricked the Darkness into having him, it would let me go.” Jensen ducked his head. “I’m here, so I suppose… I suppose it worked, but… gosh, Misha, last thing I saw was him falling sideways…”

Misha pulled him in, placing a soft kiss on his temple. Reassurance, nothing more. “We can’t know what happened, Jen.”

“I know that, I do… Mish, I… I…” He broke of, stuttering, and rubbed his neck. “I… I kissed him. Not… just before he risked his life, either.”

Misha let out a chuckle that clearly startled Jensen, his eyes snapping up huge and wide. “What?! Mish – what the hell is so funny?”

Misha brushed his cheek, glad that he was there, that he got to do this, that everything was going to be alright. And yes, if other him had sacrificed something, everything, for Jensen, the least he – they – could do to repay him was be happy and together. “You’re such an idiot. Do you think I would get mad because you kissed _me_?”

Jensen squirmed under his gaze. “It wasn’t… it was _other you_.”

Misha traced his thumb over Jensen’s lips silencing him. “And you gave him the biggest gift you had. Do you think I’d get mad at that? I love you, Jen, and for that, I love you even more.”

And Jensen melted. “Love you, too, Mish.”

Jared’s low chuckle pulled them out of their moment. “You guys are such saps.”

“Oh, shut up, sasquatch,” Jensen said, waving him of, and then leaned in to capture Misha’s mouth in a kiss.

 


	41. Chapter 41

_~ Camp Chitaqua ~_

Cas woke up the next morning feeling fairly rested, for once. He could still feel an echo of the grace his alter-ego had used on him, familiar to the point where it was just this side of aching, a reminder of what he used to be – what he remember he was, and what he didn’t. When he had dry-swallowed his morning pills, he headed out of the hut, finding that the black cloud – the Darkness – was gone. The camp’s inhabitants were shooting the place where it had been curious looks, but at least that was that.

“It’s gone,” Chuck declared intelligently, coming up to him.

“I can see that,” Cas said, not in the mood for anything. It was gone, and so was Dean, and he was still here, and there was still a devil to kill.

“Did you do it?”

“No.”

Cas simply left Chuck where he was, and headed into the ops room to figure out where to go from here. He had no hopes of other him following through on his promise, archangel or not. Dimensional travel wasn’t just a snap of a finger, it was really fucking complicated, and what proof did he have, really, that Dean wasn’t dead after all, that he hadn’t just drugged away the memory? The word of a demon and a trans-dimensional visitor who could just as easily have been a drug induced mirage. The one thing that remained was the mission, and the crooked wooden cross behind his cabin.

That is, until he pulled open the door to the cabin, brooding, only to come face to face with Dean Winchester.

“Cas!”

His Dean Winchester. All frowny faces and scars and scruff and looking as if he hadn’t slept in days – and smelling like… watermelon soap?

“Dean?”

“Thank fuck you’re still alive.”

Cas’s hand slipped from the door handle. “What a nice welcome, fearless leader.”

Something flickered through Dean’s eyes, a sudden vulnerability that Cas hadn’t seen in ages, years, even, at least not in full daylight. At night, perhaps, when they were wound around each other under the covers.

“Huh,” Cas said, perplexed.

Dean cleared his throat, and Cas could see him forcing a mask back over his face. “You got a lead on the colt.”

“Yeah.” So they weren’t going to talk about it. Fine. Cas could roll with that. “Where’d you get the soap?”

Dean had turned away from him, shuffling around maps on the table. “Other you.”

“Of course,” Cas said, thinking about how this only made sense in their fucked up lives. Even as an angel, he had never met himself from another dimension, even though he had known they existed of course. Perhaps there was a dimension out there where they actually stopped the devil together. Perhaps the other Cas he had met was that dimension – he could be, if he finally got over his angelic hang ups and got on with the program regarding Dean. He sauntered over to the desk, sneaking a finger into Dean’s beltloop and tugging.

Dean let him, diving in for a filthy, hungry kiss, before breaking away. “Later.” His voice sounded rough, and his pupils were blown.

Cas chuckled, leaning against the table. “Sure.”

Dean sighed, and pulled over a plastic bag from the other end of the table, digging around in it and shoving something at Cas – a chocolate and cereal bar and prepacked sandwich, chicken and salad and majo – and that was fresh food. Cas hadn’t even seen something so delicious in ages. “The hell?”

“Gift from other you. Knock yourself out. The rest’ll go to Chuck for supplies.”

So there was no apocalypse in the universe Dean had been stuck in. Cas just hoped that that alter ego of his still had his Dean. He pulled at the sandwich wrapper, and took one out to pass it to Dean. “Share?”

Dean stopped his senseless sorting, and took the soft bread and crunchy salad and deliciously cooked meat, avoiding Cas’s eyes. “Yeah.”

“Should probably let the Camp know you’re back,” Cas said, taking a large bite, and moaning around it. It was obscenely good.

Dean traced Cas’s tongue with his eyes when he stuck it out to lick his lips. “Yeah. Later.”

 


	42. Chapter 42

_~ A Garden at the End of the World ~_

Cas smiled as he stepped back into his garden, greeted enthusiastically by the cat. Perhaps he was the oldest being in the universe now. Perhaps he was even the only sentient being in the universe, or perhaps there were still some clusters of humanity left – and perhaps the cat would dispute the charge of not being sentient.

It all didn’t matter so much when he just made sure that not one, but two of his alter egos were safe and reunited with their Deans – or equivalent. Him and his Dean – they had been a mess, by the end. The things they had done to each other - they were unforgivable, and in the end, all Cas could offer him anymore was death, oblivion. He had failed Dean Winchester, but perhaps he had also saved him. He was everything, now. Angel, Devil, Death and perhaps even God, but for today at least, all he had been was Cas.

Cas walked around his house, towards the little grove of trees he had planted behind it – the memorial. The cat was weaving between his feet, wanting to be petted, but Cas had to do something first, his morning ritual having been interrupted.

He brushed aside some ivy and pressed his hand on the initials in the tree. He wasn’t sure if there was still an afterlife, now that Heaven had been boarded up. It wasn’t like he could go there, anyways. But perhaps he was still angel, or human, enough to have hope.

“Hello, Dean,” he said softly, tracing the markings he had burned into the bark with his grace and feeling the warmth and life of the tree.

After a moment, he turned away to tend to his cat and his bees, and a smile lingered on his face.


	43. Chapter 43

_~ Terris Concordae ~_

Everything was dark, and it was frightening, but there was nothing Misha seemed to be able to do to escape it. But the fear was an abstract, an unease that came with dark rooms, dark places, not the haunting, aching dread that the Chaos carried, not the thing that would make him scream in fear.

“Misha?! Misha, hey!”

Something – someone was patting his cheek.

“Misha!”

Oh. Right. Jared. The giant with the gentle hands and even gentler magic.

Misha blinked open his eyes and found himself staring up at the roof of the theater, Jared hovering over him.

“Hey.”

Jared breathed a sigh of relief, sitting back on his haunches. “Oh, thank the gods. I thought you were gone.”

“Still here.” Misha pushed himself up to his elbows, finding Jensen gone, and the heavy tang of powerful magic hanging in the air. “It worked?”

“No way to check. But he’s gone, so let’s hope for the best?”

Misha looked at his co-star, and found himself smiling at the memory of other-Jensen, the stolen kiss. “I think it worked.”

“How do you know?”

Misha sat up fully, pulling at his shirt to straighten it. “I don’t know how. I just… have this feeling.”

“I haven’t seen you this relaxed since…” Jared swallowed down the rest of the sentence, looking apologetic. “You didn’t just send him to your room to keep him, did you?”

“No, of course not. I sent him home. He’s back where he belongs, Jar.” Misha plucked at his sleeve – and stopped. “Oh.”

“What? What is it?” Jared grabbed his hand, shoving up the sleeve the reveal the sigil – to check for inflammation, clearly, his face a mask of worry, which immediately smoothed over to confusion. “Oh…”

“That’s what I said, genius.” Misha pulled his hand back, tracing a finger over the smooth skin. The sigil was just… gone.

“How?”

“Not a clue.”

“Your magic’s still there?”

“Yeah.” Misha reached inside, finding a clear pool of his powers, untethered and painfully beautiful, and shit – was he actually crying? “Jared…”

“I know.” Jared bit his lip, then folded him into a soft hug. “I’m happy for you, you know. I have no idea how, but I’m glad.” He pulled back with a friendly pat. “You have to hide it, of course.”

Misha had learned a few tricks over the years, during his underground work for elven rights, during his quests for a world that didn’t make cripples out of large parts of its population, for a kinder, more just world. He knew what he had to do, and really, theater was the best place to hide in plain sight. “Of course.”

 

Misha headed back to his room, making sure to pull on a shirt with tight cuffs just so long as he needed to figure out a permanent solution, or something with makeup. He stopped to smile at the picture of him and Jen for a moment, as he always did, before slipping out the theater’s backdoor to meet his friends. At the start of the day, he'd had no intention of going out, but now… He hadn’t decided who to tell yet, but some of them needed to know eventually. Perhaps it could be a surprise. At least amongst them he could be himself regardless. They’d probably missed him in the last weeks – he’d been too busy self-destructing to meet them and supply them with magic globes so they could craft things out of nothing to the annoyance of the officials.

Of course, he was welcomed with friendly shoulder pats and handshakes, no questions asked, no sympathy intruded upon him. There was a reason these guys were amongst his closest friends, aside from their craziness. There was also a new face, a woman, beautiful and curly haired, elven _and_ fay from the look of her ears. Breathtaking.

Misha pulled one of his closer friends to the side. “Who’s she?”

“You’re finally ready to get over Jen?”

Misha rolled his eyes at him. “You know it doesn’t work like that. Just answer the question.”

“Don’t really know. She’s new to town, and as batshit crazy as you. ‘V’, something. You should talk to her.”

Misha nodded, sipping his drink as he kicked back in one of the hammock they’d suspended all around their forest clearing at the edge of town by the river. He thought of other him, being with Jensen, being happy, and emptied his drink. ‘V’, something, huh?

 


	44. Chapter 44

_~ The Bunker ~_

The explosion of light was nowhere near as bright as the one back in the club had been, nowhere near as piercing or blinding. In fact, it was more like a lightning bolt, there and gone again in a second, and there was Cas, still, hanging on to the edge of the table, leaning over a smoking bowl. His hand was bleeding slightly, angel blade still grasped in the other.

“Cas?” Dean didn’t dare enter the circle yet, didn’t dare going to Cas to make sure he was okay, even though he was itching to. Sam, too, placed a hand on his arm, holding him back.

Cas pushed himself upright, examining his wrist, then the bleeding cut on his palm. “As I thought.”

“What does that mean?” Claire asked, sounding as anxious as Dean felt.

Cas’s eyes settled on Dean, looking far less otherworldly, far more familiar than they had during the last hours. “It means that the ritual worked, but it drained my grace. You can enter the circle now.”

Of course that was all Dean needed to step up to Cas’s side, examining him for injuries. “What, all of it?”

Cas held up his hand, still bleeding. “So it would seem.”

Bleeding. Of course. Dean pulled the hand towards him with a curse, noting the little pink mark on Cas’s wrist – it was barely visible at all, almost like a fading scar, a thin, whitish pink line. “Sam, get the emergency kit, would you?”

The cut wasn’t deep, the bleeding already sluggish and scabbing over, but they’d still have to wrap it. If Cas was human now, he could catch infections. “Are you human now?”

Cas shrugged. “I’m not sure. Perhaps. Perhaps it is temporary, perhaps not.”

Dean searched his face, feeling Cas’s warm pulse where he held onto his wrist. “You seem okay with that.”

Cas reached out with his other hand, it falling easily onto Dean’s shoulder. “I gave freely this time, Dean, and you are here.”

There was a flash and a click, and Claire said, “Awww.”

Dean led go of Cas’s wrist and turned around to her, frowning. “If you send that photo to anyone, I am going to kill you.”

Claire just gave him a cheeky grin. “Like to see you try, Winchester.”

“Shut up, short stack.”

“Behave.” Dean turned back to Cas, to protest, but Cas just gave him a fond smile. “Both of you.”

 ****

A few hours later, they ended up leaning against the hood of the Impala in front of the bunker, Claire safely escorted to the busses earlier and Sam inside, doing something boring like reading. Dean had his arm wrapped around Cas’s shoulders, the angel’s messy hair tickling his neck, and they were watching the stars. “I’m really glad you’re here, man.”

Cas shifted, settling deeper into the embrace. His grace hadn’t shown any signs of coming back yet, but Cas wasn’t the angsty human he had been before, or the druggy he had been in that other universe. He just seemed calm and content, and was idly tracing the lines of his mark with his finger. “So am I, Dean.”

Dean pulled his wrist up and placed a gentle kiss on the mark. It really didn’t look like much, but then, neither did Cas. Perhaps it was poetic that both had saved the world. “The Darkness is really gone, huh?”

“I would have heard from Heaven if it wasn’t. I prayed to Hannah. She would have told me.”

“That’s good,” Dean said, smiling. This was a stolen moment, perhaps, just the quiet before the storm, but they were here, they were together, they were alive, and nobody was cursed anymore. A fresh slate.

“Rowena and Metatron are still out there,” Cas remarked, but he didn’t sound terribly like he wanted to do something about that right this instant.

“And Crowley, and all the monsters that were always there. I know.” Dean tightened his grip, pulling Cas closer.

The angel peered up at him. “You think we’ll be enough?”

“Always have been. Hell, Cas, you just beat a thing from before time all on your own.”

Cas smiled, and shook his head. “I couldn’t have done it alone, Dean.”

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit. We’re nothing without you.”

Cas looked back up at the stars. “I don’t want us to argue over this, Dean.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

They fell silent for a while, then Dean shuffled around on the hood a little to get a better angle. “Kiss me, angel?”

Cas just hummed and pressed their lips together.

Everything was going to be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> RE: The Major Character Death warning. Again, this will be spoiler-y, but I feel I need to provide more detail for those of you that are sensitive to MCD. There is no actual death within this fic. There is not a single scene in which someone dies, I promise. However, since I deal with multiple universes, there are some where a MC has died pre-fic, so to speak - the most basic one is Endverse, where Sam has obviously been taken over by Lucifer. There are characters in this fic that have to deal with the loss of these people. At the same time, there are characters that are, for a time, presumed dead, but aren't. The fic definitely has a happy ending, or at the very least a decidedly hopeful note, for all the characters. None of the pairings become permanently separated in the fic. 
> 
> And if you're here because you just finished reading - THANK YOU, and I hope you had fun. I always love feedback from you guys, so don't be shy - and please don't forget my artist in your appreciation of the fic!


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